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THE JOY OF GARDENS 



THE JOY OF GARDENS 



By 

LENA MAY McCAULEY 



"In Paradise a garden lies" 



RAND McNALLY AND COMPANY 

CHICAGO NEW YORK 






Copyright, iqii. 
By Rand, McNai.i.y & Company 



aV 



^ 



'CU293829 



FOREWORD 

ANY book about gardens, written for the pleasure of 
writing, must have its sources in dreams. The 
visions of gardens beautiful and retired hover before 
the imagination, and no real garden, however humble, but 
is invested in celestial light of cherished hopes of what it 
may become in fragrant flowers or what it might have been 
had fortune been kind. 

The facts and the fancies of this book were discovered 
in various gardens, some centuries old, fruitful of memories 
of those whose hands have long since turned to dust, others 
in the joyous public gardens with parterres, and the most 
precious of all in the quiet gardens of my friends. 

"Gardening," said a wise writer, "is among the purest of 
pleasures," and one tossed on the fretful world knows that 
there is no purer delight than that which comes to the human 
heart with friends in gardens. To many friends, far and 
wide, I owe whatever inspiration lives in these pages. 

The illustration of the book was an afterthought carried 
out in the desire to suggest the art of landscape gardening. 
Credit is gratefully recorded to those who aided with the 
pictures, and especially to Jens Jensen, Jessie T. Beals, 
Mary H. Northend, J. Horace McFarland, W. H. Rau, 
Henry Fuhrman, E. L. Fowler, Alice Enk, and Mode 
Wineman. 



vi FOREWORD 

The gardens enhanced by landscape art are beautifying 
our country, but the most joyful gardens are the little planta- 
tions of flowers about homes everywhere and beyond the 
reach of the camera. 

L. M. McC. 



vi 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



List of Illustrations ix 

On Wings of Hope -. i 

A Prelude of Heaven's Harmony 10 

The Delights of Faith 20 

When Spring Awakes 28 

Sweetness and Light ■ 37 

The Uses of Adversity 47 

When Soul Helps Flesh 56 

As Fancy Flies 65 

The High Tide of Joy 74 

The Odors of Araby 83 

Et 'in Arcadia Fuisti 94 

When Bees Court the Clover 104 

In Midsummer Fields 113 

A Carnival of Gold 122 

The Friendship of Flowers 131 

Herbs o' Grace 141 

When Autumn Lingers 151 

My Lady Dahlia Takes the Air 160 

In Elysian Fields 170 

Escaped from Gardens 182 

Of Driftwood and Dreams 193 

In God's Acre 203 

Appendix 211 



Vll 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

A Water Garden at Altadena, California . Frontispiece \S 

FACING PAGE 

A Bit of Formal Garden, "Wychwood," Lake Geneva, 

Wisconsin i 

A Garden on Long Island, New York 4 

A Garden at Manchester, Massachusetts .... 8 '" 

A Garden at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania 12 f 

Rose Gardens near New Rochelle, New York . . . 16^ 

A Garden at Winnetka, Illinois 20^ 

A Rose Garden at Thomasville, Georgia 28 " 

A Water Landscape Garden at Glencoe, Illinois . 32 v 

A Garden on Long Island, New York 37 ^" 

Purple Phlox, West Parks, Chicago 44 S 

Rose Gardens of Madame Modjeska, Los Angeles, 

California 48^ 

A Garden at Bar Harbor, Maine 52 * 

A Formal Garden at Prides Crossing, Massachusetts . 56 • 

A Garden at Stockbridge, Massachusetts .... 60" 
A Water Garden at Tulane University, New Orleans, 

Louisiana 65 V 

Garden at the Longfellow Home, Cambridge, Massa- 
chusetts 68 ^ 

A Garden at Manchester, Massachusetts .... 76^ 

Villa Tosca, Palermo, Italy 8ou 

A Garden at Altadena, California 84^' 

In the Biboli Gardens, Florence, Italy 92 u 

A Japanese Garden at Wynnewood, Pennsylvania . . 96 u 

A Formal Garden at New Haven, Connecticut . . . 100 

A Garden at Katonah, New York 104^ 

Garden at "Egandale," Highland Park, Illinois . . 106^ 

ix 



x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING PAGE 

A Pergola in a Los Angeles Garden 113 

Garden of Mabel Osgood Wright 116 ■ 

House and Garden at Bar Harbor, Maine . . . . 124^ 

Water Garden and Pergola at Ellenville, New York . 128 - 

A Garden at Winnetka, Illinois 132 

Peacock Garden of Ernest Thompson Seton, Cos Cob, 

Connecticut 136 

A Garden at Ardmore, Pennsylvania 141' 

A Garden near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania . . . 144" 

A Formal Garden at Brookline, Massachusetts . . 148' 

Approach to a Water Garden, Lake Como, Italy . . 152 

Autumn Garden, Garfield Park, Chicago . . . . 156* 

A Formal Garden at Beverley Cove, Massachusetts . ibc 

A Terrace Garden at Lake Forest, Illinois . . . 164. 
Terrace Walk, Home of Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, 

Kent, England .. 172- 

Home of John D. Rockefeller, near Tarry town, 

New York 176 

Water Garden at Lincoln Park, Chicago 181 ' 

Court of the Sultana, Generalife Palace, Granada, Spain 184 

A Formal Garden on Long Island, New York . . . 188 
Scoinford Old Manor, the Home and Garden of Alfred 

Austin, Kent, England 193 * 

A Garden near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania . . . 196* 
An Old-fashioned Garden near Philadelphia, Penn- 
sylvania 200 ' 

A Garden at Winnetka, Illinois 204 • 

A Terrace Garden at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin . . 208 

Garden Plans 240-246 • 



Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege 
Through all the years of this owr life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. 

— Wordsworth. 



THE JOY OF GARDENS 



ON WINGS OF HOPE 

WINTER has fled. What matter if skies are gray 
and lawns hidden deep beneath the driven snow, 
for at dawn the sparrows sang of the coming of spring and 
let out the secret that St. Valentine's Day is here. The 
mist curtains parted before sunrise. The east, long veiled 
in somber vapors of smoked amethyst, which only on rare 
winter mornings flashed with the light of the slumbering 
fires, blazed with roseate flames as if to assure the ice- 
bound lands that the sun still wheeled in the heavens at 
his appointed time and all 's right with the world. 

Strike open the rusty lock of the garden gate; the hour 
has sounded for conquest. The upper air is as bright as 
at Eastertide, silver wreaths of fog trail fairy-veils on the 
tops of the pine trees, and the sun shines resplendently, 
diffusing a gentle warmth through the atmosphere as he 
rises higher and higher to the full splendor of midday. 

The blanket of snow covering the lily beds is melting, 

i 



2 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and tiny rills are coursing down the paths. The doves 
have come out to sun themselves, cooing sweetly as they 
patter to the eaves of the barn roof, and take short flights 
to try their wings. We can almost hear the seeds stirring 
in the earth where the full tide of sunshine falls upon it, 
and the whole garden seems to bloom with the spirits of 
flowers of other years. Then falls the afternoon; the 
vision passes, and dull-cloaked February awaits in the 
twilight. 

Yet we have lived through hours that have been glad, 
and we shall not forget that spring has given the sign and 
will burn her signal fires stolen from the sun faring north- 
ward. Winter is over, and the making of gardens is at 
hand. The miracle of grass and flowers will repeat itself, 
for the promise of a new world is in the air, the mysteri- 
ous vibration that quickens the pulses and awakens the 
hopes that fell by the way with the autumn of yesteryear. 

The February days are golden opportunities to the 
practical gardener, who counts them the appointed time 
for making ready for the fetes of summer. By being 
forehanded while frost is in the ground it is possible to 
gain from two to four weeks in the following season. 
Columbus saw the spice-laden islands of the East in his 
dreams and steered for them, and the gardener makes his 
charts and paints rosy pictures while gathering his tools 
to launch on his undertaking. His course is bent accord- 
ing to his desires, and his discovery flies their colors. 



ON WINGS OF HOPE 3 

As day follows day we realize every whim of the 
weather is a blessing in disguise, once the mind is made 
up to think of gardens. From the window the landscape 
is hidden by driving rain and sleet ; the walks are impass- 
able. Nature has ruled that we stay at home and forget, 
under the magic of the florist's catalogue, the theater in 
town. 

The calendar warns that March is but a fortnight 
away, when spring is due, and the skunk cabbage will be 
up in the woods on a sunny bank, and hepaticas hang 
their pale bloom on a sheltered southern slope. The sleet 
may rattle against the windowpane and the wind howl 
down the chimney; nevertheless it is time to begin gar- 
dening, and to do it now — as the legends say. 

We open the florist's gay booklet and mark the shrubs 
and the trees we had planned to set out. A crimson 
rambler should adorn the side window ; and small though 
the lot is, it was decided at the last cold snap that a wind- 
break of evergreens would be worth while to turn away 
Boreas from the perennials and the exposed porches of 
the dining room. 

Nature inspires the garden lover how to order a little 
paradise on paper, and as for wisdom, there are abroad 
wisacres aplenty only too glad to recite their experi- 
ences. We can say to ourselves in perfect faith that 
"Nature never did betray the heart that loved her," and 
go our ways in adventures in gardening. If one seed is 



4 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

discouraged and refuses to send forth its plant, there are 
many more just waiting the chance to get a foothold and 
to make greenery and color above the earth we have 
scratched. With garden books all around, and so much 
other advice, we should be able to put what we ought to 
have with what we really want, in good taste. 

Then comes another night of blustery weather to keep 
every one at home and the neighbors fast behind their 
own doors, and we declare in exultation that fortune has 
sent it to be the hour of planning. Accordingly we clear 
away the books of fiction and the tempting magazines 
from the table, and prepare for a serious campaign in 
formal lists. It looks to be dull work ; but if you would 
not be sorry later on, drive out the lurking distrust of 
summer success and play that all will go as gayly as a 
fairy tale, for beauty still abides among old-fashioned 
posies. 

Flowers are fed by faith, like all the homely virtues, 
and faith is the first essential in getting bloom. It is 
united to some hard work, it is true; but who ever minded 
the drudgery of a mountain climb after he had gained 
the heights'? 

Long ago the garden plan had its serpentine paths or 
was laid off in parallelograms, but to-day the waste 
ground given to paths is used for planting, and turf is 
trained over the lawns and close to the beds. The gravel 
path appears only as the practical marching ground to 



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ON WINGS OF HOPE 5 

the front door and for the comfort of milkman and 
grocery boy who approach the kitchen. It is not neces- 
sary to use compass or rule and waste ground in walking 
measures among the flower beds. The clover turf is 
pleasanter to the foot in summer, and is a refreshing 
background for clumps of hardy phlox, peonies, giant 
larkspur, and other perennials which, once invited in, 
remain always. 

For a pastime let us draw the first plan on sketch paper 
and wash in the colors of the scheme for the beds. 
Blooming posies are amicable folk, and I never knew 
their colors to fight — figuratively speaking — except in 
California, where purple bougainvilleas keep up a fierce 
warfare with scarlet geraniums, causing chills to creep 
down the spines of nervous artists. 

It is safe to mix the homely flowers, always using 
many white blossoms, while much pleasure is to be gained 
in massing plants. of a single variety and color; as many 
petunias with a border of sweet alyssum, or scarlet gera- 
niums with white feverfew to make a contrast; and beds 
of pansies, stocks, begonias, or ageratum look well with 
dwarf geraniums of the silver-leaf variety or candytuft 
or dusty miller. 

The choice being made, write the names of the flowers 
in the places they are to occupy in the beds and, if your 
imagination is not vivid, wash in the colors with paint. 
In thinking of annuals one should not overlook the 



6 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

faithful perennials and spring bulbs — though the latter 
were, of course, set in the autumn — and daffodils and iris 
are at home in their own corners. Bleeding hearts and 
peonies are the earliest joy-bringers, and, however little 
your plot, keep a place for them. 

After all, a rainy February will have its brighter side 
if the orders for seeds and shrubs have been mailed and 
the garden plans made in the evenings. An inclement 
half-holiday gives time to search for tools in the cellar 
and to hunt for dahlia roots, cannas, and gladioli put 
away in November; and the first sunny day will send us 
looking after the hotbed — but that is another story. 

By and by the hands of the clock hint that the lamp 
will soon burn low. If we are to have our nightly com- 
pany of an old book it is high time to take one from the 
shelves. What better than the master of the Utopian 
Garden — Francis Bacon*? 

"And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in 
the air (where it comes and goes, like the warbling of 
music) than in the land, therefore nothing is more fit for 
that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants 
that do best perfume the air. Roses, damask and red, are 
fast flowers of their smells, so that you may walk by a 
whole row of them and find nothing of their sweetness; 
yea, though it be in a morning's dew. Bays, likewise, 
yield no smell as they grow, rosemary little, nor sweet 
marjoram. That which above all others yields the 



ON WINGS OF HOPE 7 

sweetest smell in the air is the violet, especially the white 
double violet which comes twice a year, about the middle 
of April and about Bartholomewtide. 

"Next to that is the musk rose; then the strawberry 
leaves dying, with a most excellent cordial smell; then 
the flower of the vines — it is a little like the dust of a 
grass which grows upon the cluster in the first coming 
forth; then sweetbriar; then wallflowers, which are very 
delightful to be set upon a parlor or lower chamber 
window; then pinks and gillyflowers, especially the mat- 
ted pink and clove gillyflower; then the flowers of the 
lime tree; then the honeysuckle — so they be somewhat 
afar off. Of bean flowers I speak not, because they are 
field flowers. But those which perfume the air most de- 
lightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden 
upon and crushed, are three; that is, burnet, wild thyme, 
and water mints; therefore you are to set whole alleys of 
them to have pleasure when you walk or tread." 

As he considers still further man's making of gardens, 
to which God Almighty first pointed the way in Eden, he 
looks adown the year in the long procession of months 
and writes, "I doe hold it, in the Royall Ordering of 
Gardens, that there ought to be gardens for all months 
of the year; in which severally things of beauty may be 
there in season." What sensible advice this is — posies 
to greet the swallow, others for grasshopper and harvest 
time, others to abide with the cricket. 



8 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

A torrent of spring rain is dashing upon the window- 
panes, and the icicles tinkle like silver bells as they fall 
from the balcony above and are shattered on the stone 
sill. How they glittered, outdoing crystal balls in sun- 
shine this morning, reflecting in their shining depths the 
flowers soon to parade in the garden below ! Here is 
magic that we can make without wand or incantation; 
we have dreamed the color scheme, invited many to the 
tableau, and if to-morrow's day is fair the earthen beds 
shall be turned with a spade. 

Though inefficient and feeble in many things, poor 
blind mortals that we are, here is a certainty, and we can 
actually steal a march on nature and defy the weather 
by going about our gardening betimes. So often our best- 
laid plans have fallen to rack and ruin that it is no 
wonder we cast a thought in the direction of adverse 
demons. 

Does the wind howling through the trees, shaking the 
doors with ghostly hands — does the wind know that we 
have tried to get ahead of nature and have packed the oak 
leaves thickly above the snowdrops and first hyacinths'? 
Does the Nemesis of a late spring spy the plantlets that 
were struggling to light in the hotbeds a week ago, just 
waiting for the melting of the last snow"? 

The answer is here in the flower basket of leaf mold 
lifted from the sunny slope of the ravine. The brown 
matted covering is broken, and in the warmth and the 



ON WINGS OF HOPE 9 

sunshine that flooded the south window life began stir- 
ring in the seedlings blanketed under the oak leaves. A 
white, furry crosier is uplifted by the hepatica, a fern 
holds out a coil of green, and an acorn has turned over 
on its side to reach toward the light the tender pink 
sprout of a young tree. The joy of gardens is in the air, 
and when clouds have blown away and the sun is shining 
again, we shall bid defiance to the vagaries of willful 
spring and go planting on our own account. 



A PRELUDE OF HEAVEN'S HARMONY 

AT midnight March came in like a lion bent on ven- 
geance, announced by all the trumpets of the sky 
and a roar in the tree tops. The first peep of day showed 
whirling rings of mist taking the shapes of ghostly spirits 
which seemed to moan : 

"The wind blows out of the gates of day, 
The wind blows over the lonely of heart, 
And the lonely of heart is withered away — " 

The tones died in the distance as the dense fog swept on 
before the blast as fierce and chill as if it had been the 
breath of the Northland, from the far-away Hebrides 
and the hills where the dream-maiden Fiona MacLeod 
wove her verses. 

When it was light the gardener looked out on the 
frowning clouds and turned a cold shoulder to weather 
simulating pranks of the artistic temperament. Was this 
spring masquerading for a day in blustering March*? So 
it is by the calendar, and experiences of old shall not 
deceive us. Could we paint the weather god of this 
season, what else should he be but a combination of Jove 

10 



HEAVEN'S HARMONY n 

the sportive, of Saturn the threatening, together touched 
with the mischief of volatile Mercury ! 

When March gets into the human circle and stirs up 
the imagination and the emotions, the association is dis- 
turbing. The cheerful window garden of fragrant prim- 
roses fails to awaken gentle reflections; neither Francis 
Bacon nor Gilbert White nor John Parkinson rises to 
the wild spirits of March. While "wind and rain and 
changing skies" play overhead the Gaelic muse and 
Chopin's preludes make music within doors, where the 
lire burns brightly on the hearth. 

Such is March — variable as the winds that blow, as 
the gardener knows who learns to be weatherwise. 
Weather knowledge is a by-product of gardening gleaned 
on occasions as he watches for the south wind and, dread- 
ing the north, welcomes the east, and puts by his hose at 
the sign of a rain-laden cloud. No one scans the skies 
more anxiously than the gardener in a dry spell; no one 
is quicker to spy the sulphurous yellow vapor laden with 
hail, nor is there a professional weather man more accu- 
rate in counting the sunny days. 

But, for all this, who knows March*? Some writer on 
birds and flowers accepts the situation with resignation 
and would divide the year into four seasons — and March. 
This is as it should be. Let March roar like the lion and 
be gentle as the lamb, sleet the garden and then thaw it, 
invite the covers off the beds and send the thermometer 



12 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

to the depths, and yet, while doing its freakish worst, we 
would count the year a desert without it. 

Weather wisdom, like Dogberry's scholarship, comes 
by nature. Its first intuitions may be instilled in the 
child who finds the sky a field for his observations as ex- 
citing as the back yard or the neighbor's lot which makes 
up his play world. He looks from his little garden to the 
sk)', and somewhere in his wondering mind grows a rever- 
ence for the omnipotent power hidden behind the blue 
firmament. 

If puffed with conceit that man is the master of his 
fate, uncover the hotbeds on a sunny March day when 
the changed skies are soft and warm, and note v/hat 
happens before dusk. March is on the lookout for human 
planters, and he who "bides a wee" is safe. He is 
cautious about lifting the frames and raking off the bulb 
beds, or taking shelter from the perennials; and, when 
the season permits, employs the waiting hour making the 
rounds of the lawn and grounds with a notebook, to think 
of the things that ought to be done and the things he 
would like to do, and to write them down. 

Where the lawn sweeps to the road, an expanse of 
green may be depended upon to frame an aristocratic set- 
ting to the house. It is no light matter to keep a lawn in 
order, to banish the weeds and coarse grass, shut off the 
explorations of moles, and keep the sod shaven and even. 
However charming grass may be, the presence of flowers 



HEAVEN'S HARMONY 13 

adds a personal touch to the surroundings. Any one 
among us can recall places set in immaculately kept 
lawns, with perchance a single foliage bed laid with 
mathematical precision. Day after day lor years we may 
pass the gate without any conception of who dwells 
within or what manner of man he is. 

Drawing rooms of this type are familiar, and whole 
houses whose interiors keep the secrets of the tastes of 
their masters and mistresses. Far more lovable are the 
pretty, disorderly rooms with books and papers, pictures 
hung here and there, bric-a-brac treasured from child- 
hood, reflecting moods and every holiday of the year. 
True, the art decorator frowns on this. "Away with it 
all!" he cries. "Look to simplicity!" And should you 
heed him and visit that room devoid of its nonsense, you 
would discover to your sorrow that its soul had fled. 

Nowhere could be found the suggestive lures to book 
and to picture worlds; gone the memory of happy occa- 
sions amid the distraction of matching colors and simple 
forgetfulness — a day without friends, a future that 
stretches like a desert to the far horizon. Yes, you are 
saved dusting; but imagine being imprisoned in this 
coldly correct and conventional chamber, and compare it 
with what might have been had you but the foolish orna- 
ments of childhood, the old dictionary, the prints, and 
the stack of torn music heaped on a convenient chair, and 
the bookcases about. Who lives in this tastes of the 



14 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

whirl of life and its myriad colors — and loves even 
March in his garden. 

There lies a happy medium between soulless conven- 
tions and riotous disorder. Crocuses that smile from the 
first grass blades on the lawn, the wee, modest, crimson- 
tipped daisies that wash their faces in morning dews all 
summer long, give character to the proper expanse before 
the door. Every passing neighbor gets a message of 
cheer, and, is his horizon dark, you have given him a 
smile. If no altruistic sentiment of this order stirs you, 
imagine how artistic purple and yellow crocuses look in 
April, daisies in June, and scarlet salvia in autumn in a 
sea of green. 

Now the storm clouds have vanished, and March, 
lamblike, lends a charm to all pastoral scenes. The wind 
blows from the south, the weather vane tilts uncertainly, 
and the windows are thrown open to admit the spring; 
the fancy presents the most hopeful undertakings that we 
have thought of in many a day. A troop of nesting spar- 
rows is scouring the gardens for straws and foraging for 
seeds at the very spot where the spade will turn over the 
earth when the pools have dried away. 

At this stage of action the summer border is of that 
unsubstantial fabric that dreams are made of. Do not 
scoff at it, unbeliever who never scratched the earth or 
tasted the joys of creation by planting a seed. Consider 
but a little, and discover that more than half the joys of 



HEAVEN'S HARMONY 15 

life are visions created by our longing selves in anticipa- 
tion of something beautiful which we would have for our 
own. 

Winged by hopes, we step lightly over the quagmires 
of everyday to live in inspiring atmospheres and gather 
posies in fairy gardens. To be able to do this counts one 
among those blessed with a safe haven at hand when 
February rains flood the air, the melting snowdrifts have 
lost their purity, and the garden lies drowned, with the 
trees standing dully in a forbidding atmosphere. 

The immortal artist knows that we need the grays to 
throw the skies into brighter contrast; and if we bid dull 
care be gone and put spur to the imagination, lo! the 
garden blooms with the firstlings of Easter, and no Hindu 
magician has been at hand to wave his wand to make 
it so. 

It has been whispered that many florists' catalogues 
and railway time-tables go to those who never plant and 
to those who never travel. The little woman in her one 
room, when work is done, yields to the luxury of plan- 
ning a garden which perchance some turn in the wheel 
of fortune may give her in the unread future. No down- 
town playhouse could transport her as does the thin- 
leafed picture book in the twinkling of an eye. And 
when she has settled her perennials and sweet herbs she 
puts the pamphlet tenderly away for another dream hour. 

One who has tested the magic of it does not need our 



i6 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

pity, even if the garden is confined to a single pot on the 
window sill, or is no real garden at all. Few magazines 
equal the florists' catalogues for variety of lore ; and what 
a wealth of gardens, whole country estates, one can plan 
with a single pamphlet ! A child who has not learned to 
seek out his catalogue, with its gay pictures of flowers, 
has missed something in life, for it is a clew to a liberal 
education. Had he a garden of his own he could not 
learn the names and habits of so many flowers, nor 
become so familiar with them. 

To-day we are interested in vines, and out come pencil 
and paper, and we decide where the trumpet creeper 
would do best, where a purple clematis Jackmanii, where 
the morning-glories should unfurl to the morning, and 
where we dare experiment with these new things that we 
have never met. By investing a few dollars the kitchen 
door may become a bower, the old tree draped in beauty, 
the screen fence before the ash heap hidden behind a cur- 
tain of bloom. When enthusiasm burns high, the order 
is written out that very night, and may send us out in the 
rain to a letter box, and to bed we go with visions of 
flowering vines rambling about eaves and making the old 
house the prettiest in the neighborhood. 

Many men and women are gifted with a passion for 
planting and planning artistic homes. Their whole 
energy is spent in making, and when the task is accom- 
plished they are willing to move to another home in its 



HEAVEN'S HARMONY 17 

beginnings to go over the task again. They are born 
promoters of gardening on whom the fact of possession 
bears heavily, as their temperament bids them be up and 
doing. The stuff of the pioneer is in their fancy, blazing 
trails and conquering wildernesses, and living by the 
temptations of the florists' catalogues. 

We whose hearts cling to places cannot understand 
their building and leaving, and would pity them. But 
they do not need our pity in the least, as theirs has been 
the delight of creating, and in going to pastures new they 
will taste it again. The indoor garden is a pleasure for 
the year around, which dwellers of old houses have culti- 
vated with great success. The latter-day architect seems 
to have conspired against plants and pictures. It argues 
ill for his breadth of view, for however artistic in an 
architectural way a house may be, it will never be a home 
unless it is prepared to foster human graces. 

It must be more than a noncommittal work of art, 
more than a shell devoid of worry and distractions, more 
than a scheme of lines and a color harmony. It should 
have invitations to draw out gentleness and loveliness, 
and to lead the mind to pleasant places. Thus wall 
spaces for pictures and convenient nooks for flowers 
should be provided, so as freely to exercise their mission 
of beauty. 

The flower for the window, like the child in the house, 
is a well spring of joy. In March it is the preacher of 



18 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

springtide. Every week of the winter should have its 
blooming visitants in the garden under glass, and when 
spring comes nature gives the best of all to welcome the 
returning sun, whether indoors or out of doors. As early 
as Ash Wednesday — mid-February or the fortnight there- 
abouts — the cinerarias unfold their daisy-shaped flowers 
of rich purples, reds, blues, and whites about a tropical 
leafage. 

What a charming companion a single pot of these may 
be in a sunny window ! And if one has coaxed a Chinese 
primrose with delicate frilled pink bloom, and encouraged 
a pot of broom to shake its yellow honey bells and a 
bunch of heather to make gay, the indoors is as fragrant 
as the out of doors will be a month later. The calceolaria 
is another curious flower coming at this time, and because 
of its strangeness and orchid reminders it is most appro- 
priate in a pot, and better at home on a window sill than 
if it were out of doors by and by among the familiar 
denizens of the borders. 

Contentment in life, after all, is built upon our indus- 
try in learning to see things and to store the fancy with 
riches for times and seasons. The wealth gained from 
cloud-gazing, weather lore, wild flowers, the migrating 
birds — and, not least, the treasures of florists' windows 
and catalogues — cannot be stolen from us. 

Spring is knocking at the door. The wind and sleet 
are false prophets. All nature tells of the flight of 



HEAVEN'S HARMONY 19 

winter; even that book for stormy evenings — Paracelsus 
■ — fell open at the touch, and we read : 

"Then all is still : earth is a wintry clod ; 
But spring wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
Over its breast to waken it ; rare verdure 
Buds tenderly on rough banks, between 
The withered tree roots and the crack of frost, 
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face ; 

Savage creatures seek 

Their loves in wood and plain— and God renews 
His ancient rapture." 

These lines alone should give the poet immortality. 



THE DELIGHTS OF FAITH 

'OMAN first saw the light of day in a garden, and 
could she cherish the faith that "in paradise a gar- 
den lies" what comfort could be hers! The suburban 
bride, settled in her new home, goes to town at the first 
sign that spring is on the way, bent upon investing in gar- 
den tools. The last snowbank has not retreated before the 
March sunshine, and you may see her going forth one of 
these fair mornings equipped with garden gloves, a hoe, 
and a rake. 

The turf is still soggy, and the piles of leaves heaped 
in the corners near the porch and at the roots of trees arc 
water-soaked masses. It is too early to dig, and the rake 
has uncovered no ambitious green sprouts. Even lilac 
buds are backward and, while swollen, show the wisdom 
of waiting a little longer. Each hour the sky changes, 
and the weather vane tilts uncertainly. 

So the bride leans on her rake, enjoying the sunlight 
that warms the brisk little breeze blowing from the south, 
and looks abroad up and down the road to find what the 
rest of the world is about. A moment before she had 
been lost in a day-dream of a hedge of goldenglow, of 

20 



THE DELIGHTS OF FAITH 21 

Japanese morning-glories climbing the porch, of young 
crimson ramblers, and of an old-fashioned garden bed 
with a big clump of the new yellow snapdragons attended 
by an orchestra of bumblebees drilling the nectarines for 
feasts of honey. 

Far down the road a cock crows lustily. His triumph- 
ant note is that of a true trumpeter of spring hailing good 
tidings. Led by his call, the woman looks in the distance. 
What is it that hides the grove since last she looked that 
way, and what the caricature of chanticleer; what ani- 
mals, strange and grotesque, parade the painted barri- 
cade ? The woman sighs ; she might have known that the 
billboard fiend had made his plans and stolen a march on 
suburban beauty. 

Little tragedies such as these make a plea for walled 
gardens — from which the world may be shut out. As 
much as we Americans like open lawns upon which the 
houses stand looking toward neighbors with hospitable 
intent, the only way to gain privacy and the restful seclu- 
sion of a garden out of sight of suggestions of billboards 
and posters that tear the mind here and there with a 
thousand inconsequential distractions, is to erect screens 
for vines, plant shrubs, or to make a concerted attack on 
the billboards for spoiling rural beauty. 

A corner in the library devoted to books of magic may 
be counted among the things needful to get in tune with 
gardens. Sketching plans on paper, marking off beds with 



22 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

pegs and string, deciding on shrubbery clumps, ordering 
seeds, digging, planting, cultivating, and gathering flow- 
ers — all these are only a small part of gardening when 
you have thoroughly entered into the spirit of it. 

On gray days discouragement haunts the paths, upon 
which one turns his back and hunts the shelf with the 
books of magic. Here is one that never failed. It is 
Gilbert White's Natural History of Selborne. If it is a 
stranger, don't seek introduction through the edition de 
luxe in your library, but buy a little book, and it will be 
handy to slip in your pocket; and if by chance it is left 
on a garden seat, and the dews drench it, you will not sor- 
row for money lost, but will take it up tenderly, dry it, 
and read again. 

From Gilbert White one learns contentment and the 
riches of life in nature. What a rare man he would 
have been in the midst of a family of children ! But had 
it been so the world would have lost a magic book. At 
the glimpse of a page billboards, soggy earth, cutworms, 
or whatever has bothered the mind, take flight, and our 
little lot is a small world with vast possibilities. 

The poorest neighbor can plant crown imperials for the 
pleasure of watching for the little bird that runs up the 
stems to poke its head into the bells of the flowers to sip 
the sweets standing in the nectarium of each petal. He 
may set snapdragons for bumblebees, and seek honeyed 
blossoms loved by insects that invite the redstart to make 



THE DELIGHTS OF FAITH 23 

its nest on your premises. Through the eyes of Gilbert 
White the keeper ot the tiniest inclosure has his vision en- 
larged beyond the tew beds and struggling bloom that he 
calls his own. The insect kingdom, the bird world, the 
passing clouds, are all part of the flower garden, with the 
sun that daily stays "leaning on his staff, and looking 
back over the world as a man might do at the last of his 
journey. " 

A few days of stiff winds dry off flooded places with 
marvelous rapidity. One may venture to predict that, 
following a fierce February and stormy early March, mild 
weather will come apace. The head of the house, who 
drives a nail straight, has probably finished making a 
cold frame ; namely, a box with a window-frame top and 
no bottom. The cold frame is set over a bed on the south 
side, where the sun strikes it all day. 

The bulbs that have been kept away for Easter will 
pick up under the glass. Bits of old matting and carpet 
furnish a protection from the chill of stormy nights ; and 
if the covers have been propped up during the day to let 
in the fresh air and sunshine, the props should be taken 
out before the penetrating chill of twilight comes and the 
last sunshine has stolen away from the tree tops. While 
earth sleeps outside, violets and narcissi will bloom under 
the shelter. 

Awaking in the morning at the warble of early rising 
birds, and hearing a distant bell toll six, while the 



24 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

crimson blush of dawn was reflected on the chamber wall, 
there came to mind a book on tfhe Delights of Faith. 
It was written by a Cambridge fellow whose life interests 
were bounded by a tiny room and a single window look- 
ing out upon an old garden on the banks of the peaceful 
Cam. The scholar, enamored of bookish seclusion in his 
youth, had given all his years to tfhe Delights of Faith 
and the care of his garden, and then had gone to rest con- 
tent that he had finished his book. 

Those who came later and rested on the moss-grown 
bench under the yew tree he had planted, listening to the 
hum of bees from his hives near the clump of splendid 
foxglove, and scenting the pungent odor from the box 
hedge that he had trimmed, felt the garden of beauty 
renewing its promises with returning springs was his true 
legacy to posterity and the eloquent volume on the de- 
lights of faith. 

The time-stained pages were turned one by one to 
catch a vital spark of an ardent soul, and the mellow sun- 
shine of the English afternoon grew golden in the full 
tide of spring's glory. The linnets sang in the fragrant 
bower of laburnum, and heaven seemed surely to have 
come down to earth. It needed no argument of priest or 
creed to write the delights of faith. 

Biding our time in wayward March in this western 
world, which has yet to make its gardens for posterity, the 
almanacs and fashion-mongers tell us that spring is here. 



THE DELIGHTS OF FAITH 25 

Every noon the sunshine marks a line farther north on the 
leaf-covered hepaticas and the brown bulb beds, showing 
a daring spear or two of green. In the confined garden 
spaces our careless eyes overlook the daily progress of 
the northward coming of sunshine. If one would see it in 
its mystery and beauty, let him take a flight from the 
Gulf to the Lakes and behold how spring is marked on the 
countryside as plainly as if the Almighty Artist dipped 
his brush in green every morning and spread it across the 
face of nature, scattering flowers in its trail, each day a 
little nearer to the arctic snows. 

It does seem rather far-fetched to imagine that the tree 
tops feel the sunshine before our duller senses are awake, 
because they are that much nearer heaven. Yet this must 
be true, else why are the topmost twigs on the elm, maple, 
poplar, ash, willow, and cottonwood decorated with 
swelling buds'? 

Look and look again at them, for it will not be long 
before their graceful shapes will be hidden with draperies 
of foliage. 

The drooping disposition of the elm and the elegance 
of the birch and maple are never more evident than when 
outlined against the twilight of a March sky. It has 
taken long to become acquainted with the bare catalpa and 
linden, and if you have not known the silver-leaf poplar, 
hunt out a few in the neighborhood. Hereafter it will be 
listed among the wayward friends of testy temper, twisted 



26 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

by every influence, gnarled and knotted and picturesque 
when leafless or in fine fettle, and, though not claiming 
honors of grace, an interesting friend. 

This is digressing from our original flower hunt in the 
tree tops. The true lover of trees peers about for them 
whenever he takes his walks abroad, knowing that their 
time is short. Of course the short-sighted must take a 
field glass, but bird hunting or flower hunting under these 
conditions does not bring the happy intimacy that comes 
from bird society on your own lawn, or studying tree 
flowers overhanging the porch. 

Trees play a part in the joy of gardens; and, were 
mine the privilege to plant this spring, I should choose for 
flowers, as well as for shade, a Judas tree, a locust, a 
flowering crab, catalpas, and lindens — if I had space for 
all. The birds should have their share of fragrant bou- 
quets from budding time until June slips into summer, 
when the air hums with bees. Nor should a March pass 
forgetting the blossoming elms, maples, willows, and 
their companions. 

Gather a bunch of tree twigs anywhere, and wait for 
surprises in the vase of water in the sunny window where 
you have set them. 

It is true it is a crime to injure a tree, but in this single 
instance the lesson is worth the sacrifice, and all will be 
forgiven if you have learned to know the powdered gold 
that is shed from the ash, the tassels of the willow, the 



THE DELIGHTS OF FAITH 27 

fairy flowers of elm and maple, and the tropical luxu- 
riance that pushes its way from the rosin-tipped, sweet- 
scented buds of the cottonwoods. Never again will you 
pass a tree without its cycle of beauty unrolling before 
you. 

The serious crowds gathered, before the seedsmen's 
shops remind us that many things should have been done 
in the suburban garden before the equinox. Wind-blown 
weeds and grass lodged in the shrubbery have been raked 
out and burned, and every shrub inspected to dislodge 
cocoons and suspicious insect nests. 

Never mind what is said of the deceit of catalogues, 
and keep away from friends who have fads without a real 
love for flowers, holding fast to your delights of faith. 
The first item for a successful garden is to want one. 
With the desire comes intuition, and laying in a goodly 
store of garden books and talking to an old-timer who has 
a garden puts one on a long way toward experience. 
Flower culture is like child raising — you are dealing with 
life in which sunshine and love are essentials. 



Y 



WHEN SPRING AWAKES 

ELLOW jonquils guilty of gold stolen from the sun- 
shine, and the violets breathing odors sweet in 
every florist's shop, assure us that spring is here, with the 
chariot of Apollo north of the equator and lengthening 
days that are wresting more minutes and hours from the 
night. An inheritance of the immortal spirit of the Greeks 
has given to our own times the association of daffodils and 
swallows, thyme and the hum of bees, and charming sug- 
gestive touches of poetry, without which life would be a 
dull pageant. How sweet the memory of the flowery 
steps of flying Proserpine ! 

If the jonquils peeping from flower baskets and nod- 
ding in the hands of passers-by could speak, we might 
learn of a land where spring is come. We should hear of 
acres of bloom far to the south, of billows of gold that 
we may see with that "inward eye that is the bliss 
of solitude"; and then, still in the spirit of Words- 
worth, "the heart with pleasure fills and dances with the 
daffodils." 

But wlvy not have daffodils of our own? Their time of 
life is brief, it is true, but what a moment of concentrated 

28 



WHEN SPRING AWAKES 29 

joy it is! How does it happen that we have forgotten 
jonquils, daffodils, narcissus poeticus 1 ? Out with the 
garden plan, and put them down along by the lilacs in the 
turf at the fence corner, and set out a hundred and more 
bulbs at the proper time. Underline it well, and swear 
to yourself not to forget. 

If we had time to mourn we would put on sackcloth 
and strew ashes and berate ourselves for our forgetful- 
ness, which lets moments of purest delight flit by. 

How many jonquils we have neglected to plant 
through life, to our own sorrow ! But delay no longer. 
Look ahead to next spring, and the merry frilled cap of 
the sunny flower will nod to you through the darkness of 
wakeful nights and the gloom of heavy days, and you 
can say, "I have something to hope for — there is that bed 
of jonquils, my company of daffodils, and the narcissus 
poeticus that blooms in May." 

To begin with, buy a pot of budding jonquils now, es- 
pecially if you fear the fickleness of your resolution. A 
dollar spent on enough to fill a window brings royal re- 
turns ; and note the wisdom of this, for, when the flower's 
brief span of life has run, you can gather up the bulbs and 
plant them where you wish to meet them again next 
spring. The lawn mower will run over them during the 
summer, the clovers will not whisper where they are in 
the grass, but next March a bunch of flat spikes will push 
through the brown mold. By the first of April there will 



30 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

be yellow-tinged buds, and some fair morning, when you 
awake to hear the robin in the trees, there will be golden 
trumpets swaying to and fro, keeping time to his matin 
song. 

Perennials are the crown jewels of gardens. It is a 
foolish procedure to uproot and change every year. The 
demon of novelty may beset us, and the magazines fill 
pages with advice of this or that in good taste. It is our 
privilege, however, to keep character in our garden, to 
seek the bloom time has tested, and to make it all a place 
of loveliness to keep cheer in our thoughts as time flies by. 

A little plat back of the house is an opportunity, 
though from fence to fence it is but twenty-five feet. If 
an unwilling city dweller looking for beauty in a resi- 
dence locality, you probably have discovered a neighbor- 
ing lot of this size, and have gone out of your way 
sometimes to look through a knot hole in a high board 
fence to find out if the dielytra is hanging out its sprays 
of bleeding hearts at the same time the snowball bush 
which you can see from the street is in bloom, and if the 
peonies are still as thrifty, and if there are enough May 
pinks along the sidewalk to give you a few for the asking. 

Next to entering into the pleasure of gardens set by 
flower lovers gone before, is the keen satisfaction of plan- 
ning one about a new home. Perhaps the order should be 
reversed — the new before the old — or maybe there is 
no choice at all when returns have been weighed. The 



WHEN SPRING AWAKES 31 

altruistic spirit is more largely exercised in planting for 
those who come after, and it should be tempered with a 
serious responsibilit)^. 

Some have been heard to say, "Decorate to-day, for 
to-morrow you move," and they expend all their fancy on 
potted geraniums, palms, and hastily sown annuals. To 
the winds with them ! They well deserve to move often, 
and a concerted plan should forbid their ever having a 
posy from any of our fragrant borders. Flower growing 
may seem a trifling thing, but if heaven has blessed you 
with a bit of ground, remember the parable of the man 
with the talents and turn to the page in your conscience 
that considers gardens for yourself, your neighbors, and 
to-morrow. 

Why should we be chosen from thousands — we blessed 
and they denied 1 ? Perhaps they long for a spade and 
pruning hook more than we do. Fate, sharing her 
bounties, has given us this — ma3'be a garden to plant in 
common with the bride of Twelfthnight who has just 
found her nest beyond the city's roar. 

An unconquered suburban lot on a gloomy March day 
has an unlovely aspect, but it is an opportunity. Sitting 
on the sunny corner of the porch with the garden plat on 
a book, a catalogue, and a box of water colors, one can 
look abroad and in the mind's eye see the perennials 
blooming. Of course they are massed where they will be 
sheltered and out of the way of the beds of annuals. 



32 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Dip your brush in pink and wash in a tall clump of 
foxgloves; the many colored hollyhocks would look well 
hard by; the blue larkspurs must make a group by them- 
selves; and there should be a clump of white phlox — ■ 
the queens of the meadow. 

Fancy a long row of goldenglow following the paths 
for autumn ; and to this side, where it may be seen, paint 
a bleeding heart as the sign of the clump of dielytra, and, 
where space is to spare, the peonies. 

For the sake of romance let there be a little violet bed 
and a congenial place for lilies of the valley. The pro- 
cession of perennials should keep pace with the sun, "the 
daffodils that come before the swallow dares and take the 
winds of March with beauty," and snowdrops celebrat- 
ing Easter, the bleeding hearts at Whitsuntide, the 
peonies and foxgloves for June, and the larkspur, holly- 
hocks, and phlox abiding with sweet William all summer 
until autumn glory brings down its own. 

To catch pleasure as it flies is a rare accomplishment. 
The main thing is to grasp the opportunity, thanking the 
stars that it is yours; and to make the best of it with a 
cheerful heart, not questioning if it is great or small. 

A thrill of music on the air announces that April is 
here, whispering in the tones of flutes and violins on the 
three waxed cords of an eolian harp strung in the east 
window. In a moment of vexation we turned to an irri- 
tating draft that rebelliously defied the March blast, and 



WHEN SPRING AWAKES 33 

to thwart all naughty spirits of the air had waxed a bit of 
string, stretched it in the crevice, and lo ! upon the listen- 
ing ear came the musical trumpet of winds. Now the 
song without words has faded in the distance to give place 
to the long-drawn sweetness of the fairy waldhorn of 
April and an orchestra of tremulous music. Innocent 
delight has been wrested from the midst of besetting 
annoyance, and pleasure caught as she flies. 

The April atmosphere throbs with promises — the 
strange odors of blossoming tree tops, of opening lilac 
buds, hint of Yi\y bells and the first shy hepatica above 
ground. The scimitars of skunk cabbage and blades of 
iris announce a transformation. April skies and April 
rains make the background and fitting accompaniment to 
the stir of awakening nature out of doors. 

"There's as much in the nature as in the culture of the 
soil," sang Cowper of the intellectual gardens, which, 
unfortunately, cannot be made over with wood ashes, 
though in the mental garden fencing plays its part in 
shutting out evils and in making it ready to bear the right 
and agreeable blossom. 

As April really marks the beginning of gardening in the 
North, when frost is out of the ground, it behooves us to 
look into the nature of the soil, and perchance to scour 
the neighborhood for "the man who knows" and can tell 
what is actually needed. Then the garden can be spaded, 
raked, and worked over, both the nature and the culture 



34 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

of the soil preparing the way for the seeds to put in their 
best growing. Plants are the most grateful things on 
earth, and abundantly repay a cultivating hand, which 
should be kept busy until frost comes. 

Have you ever thought how uninteresting those things 
are that have no past and seem to live only in the present 1 ? 
These are the new towns set up on speculation, the groups 
of suburban villas, the rows of semi-detached tenements 
in which every man tries to fancy he is under his own 
rooftree, and packs his belongings in the spring to try 
another house, vainly imagining that he is home-hunting. 

Foolish man and foolish town ! Had they but planted 
roots that would strike deep for permanency, twined a 
vine, set a tree, before they were aware they would have 
had a leafy background and would be making history. 
For it is history — record of things done to weave into the 
fabric of time — that envelops houses and towns in human 
interest and really makes them homes. 

If perchance yours is one of a score of little houses in 
a made-to-order subdivision, make the vow secretly to 
step out of the class, though you are in the midst of it. 
Plant a syringa, a flowering almond, and a tree honey- 
suckle in your lot, with peonies, bleeding hearts, phlox 
and goldenglow and, if there is room, a hardy climbing 
rose, a Baltimore belle or rambler, beside your front door. 
Before spring is gone this modest garden will be the cen- 
ter of neighborhood attraction. If you have decided to 



WHEN SPRING AWAKES 35 

put in a cherry tree, the migrating birds will have told it 
all along the skies; and for a few dollars a rented house 
has become a residence with a history. 

Catching pleasure as it flies is not a feat demanding 
money or social standing; it is doing easy and pretty tasks 
and not waiting until to-morrow. Some one of these days 
there will be a new prophet, who will carve on his 
temples "To-day," and straightway every one will make 
the best of his passing hours and will not put off happi- 
ness and leisure and kindliness until a ghostly to-morrow 
that never comes. Every householder will buy his win- 
dow box, make his flower beds, and study his catalogue 
for bloomers to make his gardens grow, and not deny 
himself the pleasure until he is "able to move into the 
country." 

Permanence is a secret of the charm of old gardens. 
It is the thought that the same flowers have bloomed 
year after year, and have turned their pretty faces to the 
sunshine of successive summers, increasing in glory with 
the passing of time. This, then, is a plea for perennials, 
shrubs, and ornamental trees, which may be compared to 
the virtues giving beauty of character to the encourager 
thereof. 

What matter if one rents, and moves now and then! 
Does he not get the reward of his garden of bloom while 
he remains, and does he not have the greater blessedness 
of looking backward at the garden he has left, knowing 



36 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

that others are watching orioles in the cherry tree, others 
gleaning surprises in spring, others enjoying the sweetness 
of his rosebush? It is enough to make a man more a man. 
The nature of the soil having been made perfect in 
early April, it is safe to think about seeding. Here are 
the lists of hardy perennials and annuals, and the lore of 
dahlias and sweet-pea planting. Before the middle of 
April the native shrubs going to destruction in suburban 
lots should be transplanted into the yard. What can be 
prettier than the Siberian dogwood, the pussy willow and 
its cousins, and the wild crab? If intent on improving 
vacant lots, a clump may be planted there, as well as 
four-o' clocks, Shirley poppies, sunflowers, and larkspurs, 
which persist under adversity. April, fickle and uncer- 
tain, opens the planting time and the practical garden 
making. 



SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 

HAPPINESS is a light-footed goddess dancing at- 
tendance on the consciousness of work well done. 
She plays at hide and seek, evading you as you turn to bid 
her stay, then shyly comes upon you unawares, whisper- 
ing a word that your heart may hear when you have put 
aside your longing in devotion to the duties nearest you. 

Many a floral tragedy is created, many a domestic 
failure precipitated, by putting off the day of preparation. 
Who blames flowers for giving up the ghost when they 
have been invited into the world to meet beds unready 
and to suffer for nutriment and water*? Who wonders 
that household bliss fades away where there is neither 
cheer nor welcomed 

The world has such as the bouncing Bet and happy-go- 
lucky folk who flit away from environment and take 
pleasure gypsying in the sunshine ; but, in truth, neglected 
gardens, like neglected homes, are places of discourage- 
ment. In the final accounting let us hope that penalties 
for failure will be laid on the sinners who should have 
cultivated the soil fit for rising ambitions, and not on 
tender youth born in an unfriendly world. 

37 



38 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

The bird choirs have assembled robins, bluebirds, and 
other songsters who wake with the dawn. Gardening is 
play work when the sun is shining, the heavens are of 
April blue, and music fills the air. The garden books 
have not marked the red-letter day of planting just yet, 
but the flutter of nest building and the leafing of tree 
and shrub warn that nature is going ahead with her plans. 
She does not stay, or linger, dreading a busy season. 

Who will be to blame by and by if the seeds do not 
come up? Yonder lie your heap of perennial roots and 
bundles of shrubs. You wonder humorously to yourself 
why your friend the florist does not post a sign, "No gar- 
den without a spade." 

The man in search of work, the man out of a job, the 
man v/ho yearns to earn an honest dollar, is not hunting 
industry on the highroad at garden-making time in the 
village. You may lean on your rake in the sunshine 
under the robin's tree for sixty minutes — perhaps for a 
whole morning — and the man with a hoe, or the anxious 
laborer, will not loom up on the hilltop. The critical 
moment of decision has come; you must set the alarm 
clock an hour earlier, and toil if you would have your 
rewafd. 

Break up the hard clods with a mattock, get the chil- 
dren to help with rakes, and when the surface is fine and 
smooth, the soil pulverized, a thrill of satisfaction will 
creep over your weary body, and genuine happiness greet 



SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 39 

a good job. Unless this comes to pass, do not blame the 
seedsman when seeds refuse to come up and do their best. 

Our trusted friend Eben Rexford bids us have patience 
and wait until May before sowing annuals. Turn the 
pages of the familiar log book. Oh, rapture ! It is sweet- 
pea planting time. ' "Sow in new ground as soon as it can 
be worked, except the white-seeded sorts, which should not 
be sown until the ground is comparatively warm and 
dry. Sweet peas do better in cool weather than in hot, 
sending strong roots deep into the soil." 

My country friend favors a screen of brush for his 
sweet peas, which stand tiptoe, looking out sweetly from 
the brown twigs. Coarse-meshed wire netting, fastened 
to posts, makes a practical trellis which the sweet peas 
will cover with a leafy green and fragrant decoration 
from June to November. The failure of sweet peas usu- 
ally may be traced to neglect on the part of the gardener. 

The choice of color is a personal matter, as all sweet 
peas are lovely. Our friends who have the naming pas- 
sion, who dote on calling snapdragons antirrhinums and 
everyday plants by many-syllabled Latin titles, can in- 
dulge their memories with the select "400" of sweet-pea 
society. What a delight to mention "Lady Grizel Hamil- 
ton," "Countess Spencer Var," when we have our com- 
pany manners on; or, when we are sportive, to talk 
jocularly of the "Gray Friar" or "Captain of the Blues." 

The day of the first blossom on the trellis will mark an 



40 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

epoch in the garden diary — which of course you will 
keep, not only recording flowers, but birds, insects, tree 
frogs, and humankind that visit it. After that eventful 
morning the sweet-pea clippers must be ready, and bloom 
not clipped for the vases cut to prevent seeding, as every 
bit of life should go to making flowers. 

A day's work with spade ends in a luxurious enjoyment 
of the hour of April sunset. Choose the west window, 
where the full beauty of fleeting gold, the brightening of 
the silver crescent of the moon, and the torch of Venus 
may be yours. One of the magic books may lie at hand, 
and you read : 

"Just when you were safest, there 's a sunset touch. 
A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death. 
A chorus ending from Euripides — 
And that 's enough for fifty hopes and fears 
As old and new at once as nature's self 
To rap and knock and enter in our soul. 
Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring 
Round the ancient idol on his base again — 
The grand Perhaps !" 

What heresy is this in the face of the sky pageant, the 
vespers of the birds, and the hopes of sweet peas planted 
in the garden! Shut the door on the elves of doubt. 
There is no "grand perhaps" ; the grass is green once 
more, the crocus holds up its chalice of gold, and nature, 
unfaltering, is true to her ancient promises. 



SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 41 

To dress and to invite one's soul is a privilege without 
price — and without sin if we invite the gods. To loaf 
and to invite nonsense is another thing in tune with plant- 
ing thistles for the sake of watching them come up. But 
who will say us nay when we half shut our eyes and 
behold iris trailing her rainbow robes across the sunny 
slopes of the ravines, awakening the rosy hepaticas to 
paint beauty over the brown earth, or follow her to the 
brook when the buttercups and cowslips open their golden 
coffers at the call of spring! 

What punishment more awful than to be "shut away 
in outer darkness," without fragrance, music, or color, 
and to have eyes that see not and ears that hear not 4 ? The 
perfume of opening violets and lilac buds, the blue of 
rain-washed April skies, and the wind harps in the tree 
tops accompanying the robin's matin song would be as 
things that were not. 

It is a blessed chance that coin from the mint cannot 
purchase these things, or earthly painters change the color 
harmonies that nature plays upon our eyes as strains of 
music fascinate our ears. The humblest and most sorely 
distressed needs but invite his soul to the vision of azure 
beds of scillas reflecting the blue of heaven from the fresh 
green of the young grass on the lawn, or look with rapture 
upon the gold-woven tapestry of royal crocuses gemmed 
with the dew of early morning, or go in search of the pink 
clouds of peach and apple bloom in the groves. 



42 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

In thinking of other worlds beyond, we should have 
vast comfort in this if we were certain that we could en- 
joy our garnered experience, which we have bought so 
dearly. Last season there was the memory of a tangled 
flower garden where each sweet thing went its willful 
way — and surely flowers ought to know what is best and 
grow in grace if given their way. We know advocates of 
natural gardens for children as well as for flowers every- 
where, and it is probable that the outcome is marked with 
the same astonishing results, since foxes of mischief and 
vagrant weeds of ne'er-do-well tendencies creep through 
the palings left unwatched. 

"Plant things sure to grow and leave the rest to na- 
ture," said a wiseacre disciple of the natural garden, pre- 
senting the seeds. Later he walked by on the other side 
of the street as scarlet zinnias touched elbows with purple 
phlox and blue larkspur and tall sunflowers looked dis- 
consolate among weigelas amabilis. 

The disciple of the natural garden groaned inwardly 
while confessing that he had not dreamed a color scheme 
and invited his soul before seed buying. "All chance, 
direction which we cannot see," he murmured. "Even 
nature plans her color schemes, groups her plants, and 
harmonizes with ribbons of white and green." The 
superb scarlet zinnias massed by themselves with the 
green grass all around or a fringe of dainty feverfews, 
the purple phlox associated with their white kindred in a 



SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 43 

clump apart, and the larkspur tangled with Shasta daisies, 
and order and harmony reign among these simple folk. 

As in life we should choose friends for youth and 
friends for age, some for the idle hour and many for the 
everyday of passing years, in a like humor we may as- 
semble our flower companies to keep pace with the moods 
from January until Christmas. Why haste to plant all 
the garden at once, when it is so important, and the 
working and planning are a delight? Its beauty, after 
all, is the reflection of the inner taste of the ardent 
gardener. 

When to-morrow you stop to look across a lawn where 
bloodroot is nodding its cap among the hepaticas under 
the shrubbery, and where trilliums are lifting the mold 
under the snowberry bushes, and there are signs of colum- 
bine and shooting stars, you may smile to yourself that all 
that simplicity is like a charming verse of poetry, the fine 
picture of a divine thought of one who roved the wild- 
flower haunts. 

And as you go down the street, and the tender grass 
waves about clumps of sunny jonquils, and there the sun 
shines warmest where a colony of narcissus poeticus is 
swaying, and in prim rows the tulip blades have cut stiff 
ranks across the lawn, you may say to yourself that here 
is one who has hoped and is now having high festival be- 
cause of dreams coming true. 

Then perchance, as you note the ruddy buds of peonies 



44 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and sharp swords of iris peeping above the ground, you 
pray your memory to remind you to pass that way again 
in May to feast your eyes on the purple of the iris and 
the luxuriant bloom of the peonies while the air is heavy 
with their fragrance and bees are gathering sweets. 

Some time in your wandering you may rest under a 
hedge, awaiting the passing of an April shower, and look 
forth into a quiet little garden that brought out a picture 
of last June. Then it was flame and mystery with hosts 
of Oriental poppies, glowing red, dropping their heavy 
heads amid cool green foliage. What a wealth of gor- 
geous color was that tiny garden ! And as July came and 
once more you turned your steps to its familiar paths, 
lo! a cloth of gold, eschscholtzia of the Golden West, 
spread splendor all about, and you vexed your heart to 
know what manner of gardener had sown seeds to blossom 
so royally. Nor was the pageant done, for the frosted 
autumn woods bent above the cardinal of salvia framed 
in wreaths of star-eyed asters and goldenrod, and, as win- 
ter snows lay deep, the mountain ash, bittersweet, and 
scarlet berry shone above the snow. 

The poet's feeling for sweetness and light leads us to 
make the garden charming - with color and perfume. 
When we recall the old garden treasured in memory it 
had its color dream to live in the mind's eye; a back- 
ground of flaunting pink hollyhocks against a distant 
fence, a thriving tangle of mignonette — maybe naught 



SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 45 

but a mound of tropic petunias heavy scented, or in a 
kitchen garden yellow-frilled marigolds and honeyed 
wallflowers. 

It is an idle thing to scatter the seeds of good intentions 
far and wide with a careless hand. The strong plants will 
tower above the weaker, and the frail faint in the shad- 
ows, for that is the inscrutable law of life. The garden 
picture is arranged by the laws of gentle living for sweet- 
ness and light and the joy of color. Have fragrance 
aplenty — mignonette, rose geranium, lavender, and lemon 
verbena — and amid their cool greens weave a galaxy of 
hues to give the beauty of the rainbow through a season. 

To-morrow will be May Day. How the merrymak- 
ers of old England loved it! "Corinna, come, let 's 
go a-Maying" out in the meadows where the cowslips 
spread gold for the larks and throstles. An English May 
is a joyous time, and of uncommon power to awaken in 
Milton, the sturdy Puritan, the song: 

"Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her 
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire 
Mirth and youth and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long." 



46 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Our land may be too young to have matured a love for 
wandering in spring and taking what God's lovely earth 
gives freely for the pleasure of all. It is not too late to 
walk new paths. Work and then play. Let 's all go 
a-Maying. The woods and marshes are clad in fresh 
beauty. Come, let 's go a-Maying ! 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 

IT cannot be counted a sin to envy the goodwife who 
goes abroad in the dewy sweetness of the early morn- 
ing to dig dandelions from the grass on the park lawns. 
The atmosphere in the first hours of a May day is pale 
with gauzy vapors rising from the ponds and exhaled by 
the bursting buds on shrubs and trees. It is laden with 
the odor of an incense faint and exhilarating that wears 
the tremulous pianissimo of lily bells and honeysuckle 
flutes. 

To such music the goodwife takes her basket and goes 
to the shrine of Mother Nature, and there one may find 
her on her knees among the tender herbage, hoarding the 
gold of the dandelion. She shares her treasure with the 
few elect, and, when dandelion season is gone, her simple 
faith in flower lore brings her again to knock at our doors 
with her basket heaped with old-fashioned bouquets of 
spice pinks, verbenas, mourning brides, alyssum, and 
sweet marjoram, bordered with the lace of asparagus. 

Happy is he who has found his gospel of art and is 
satisfied therein. It is simple enough, if one is content to 
go through life looking through a punched elder stem. 

47 



48 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

But if one is without blinders, and greets the dandelion 
gatherer and her bouquet sisterhood in the morning, meets 
our friend of the Japanese cult at luncheon, and dines 
with a florist, he ponders into the long reaches of the night 
and begs of the powers that be for a sign of the right and 
true way. 

No gentle heart could deny sympathy with the posy 
bunch of the dandelion gatherer, nor could the finest 
tuned reject the gray- toned room with its single opening 
rosebud leaning from a crystal vase, nor could one turn a 
deaf ear to the creed of a "mum" or carnation breeder; 
the world has room for them all. It is only a question of 
selection and sociability. 

The generous, loving heart would in time rebel at the 
vacant harmonies, the solitude of self and none other in 
the esthetic room, and the "mum" breeder would join in 
stealing off for a holiday behind the hedge, where the 
country folk were sharing harmless gossip and making 
bouquets for everyday homes, where willow chairs 
elbowed with mahogany, and books of verse disturbed the 
dust on neglected volumes of wisdom, while the wander- 
ing breeze rustled the chintz curtains before the casement. 

Then, if we are given the grace to have courage to 
cultivate a tangle of familiar flowers that live but a sum- 
mer, the sun warns us that it is high time to plant the 
seeds. We may yet get ahead of the ambitious neighbors 
who made garden in April, for no seed will sprout before 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 49 

the ground is well warmed to that cozy, half-dry condi- 
tion, not too dry nor yet too moist, suitable to hold and 
feed hungry rootlets. Most of the annuals do not root 
deeply, but live from day to day on sunshine and surface 
moisture, in common with many other gay children of the 
human species on earth. 

While we may indulge in the luxury of a pergola 
draped with vines, one for each season, or have sunken 
gardens or water gardens for show, the woman gardener, 
with a strain of the feeling of the dandelion gatherer, 
takes her genuine comfort in the border of old-fashioned 
flowers. The flowers themselves are as curious and way- 
ward as the folk of a country village, and their outlook 
on life just as illogical. 

Annuals in general refuse to grow symmetrically, and 
the botanist in search of freaks always finds his reward in 
quaint variations of the reversions to an original type. 
But the gentle housewife thinks of none of these things, 
cherishing the notion that she is going gardening when 
she puts on her sunbonnet, her leather gloves, and takes 
her basket of tools — a trowel, weeder, and clippers. 

Before this happy stage of action is reached, who can 
tell what strategy has been practiced, what battles fought 
with the goodman of the house, or the arch enemy of 
things unconventional, the architect and the artistic land- 
scape gardener 1 ? It is not well to meet in open fray in 
gardening any more than it is in nine tenths of the issues 



SO THE JOY OF GARDENS 

of life. The enemy must be circumvented by guile; he 
must be conquered without his knowing it; and he must 
be left imagining himself victor while the gentle house- 
wife goes her way quietly enjoying the spoils of conquest, 
which, when the truth is told, are all that she cares for. 

Granting that the architect has set the house in green- 
sward with a motto of silence and serenity, eliminating 
notes of distraction to rest-seeking minds, then choose the 
other side of the grounds and shield the riot of merry 
color by a hedge of hydrangeas or castor beans, if he will 
not permit you to run your sweet-pea screen across this 
line. Hidden from view of the highroad, one may do 
what one will with his own, and give no offense to the 
high-bred taste of the master who contemplates his single 
clump of Japanese iris in ecstasy, or has made the happi- 
ness of a summer depend on a mound of flaming cannas 
edged with calladiums and waving grasses. 

Alas for the apartment-house born and bred who have 
no memories of old gardens; and jojr go with those who 
are making their first suburban garden of annuals ! Take 
comfort in the thought that the simple plants are deter- 
mined to grow if given a chance, and that the books will 
help the inexperienced. 

We who know just a little, and have stolen a march 
and prepared the earth, should keep a sunny spot for 
nasturtiums, which will sprawl or climb and give bloom 
for bouquets until killing frost. Petunias also enjoy a 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 51 

sunny colony; and Shasta daisies, sweet alyssum, candy- 
tuft, sweet-scented stocks, rose geraniums, and lemon ver- 
bena, planted irregularly, harmonize the variety of colors. 

Among the yellows to-day is a fine, tall snapdragon, 
and the calendulas, coreopsis and calliopsis, and mari- 
golds have not lost a whit of their gold. The pinks are a 
host in themselves in bouquets, and for blues we must 
have forget-me-nots, velvet pansies, lobelia, and larkspur; 
in red, nothing finer than a poppy; for purple, heliotrope 
and ageratum, and the tapestry of many-colored phlox, 
aster, and zinnia, and, for fun, love-in-a-mist and ragged 
robins. 

Yes, there are many more; but, as in life, too many 
friends are as heartbreaking as none at all, when we can- 
not gather them about us. Here, too, we must choose 
the few who will sv/eeten our days. 

More than common piety must abide in the soul that 
accepts the sweet uses of adversity without a murmur 
when May borrows caprice of April, and with the windy 
temper of a vixen drenches the newly-seeded beds and 
washes the furrows into miniature rivers, creating rapids 
from the plots of choice phlox to the cherished planta- 
tions of pompon asters. All in the garden that was made 
fit and fine has been the sport of the storm. 

How we had boasted of its neatness, and discoursed 
with envious neighbors on what June had in store, and 
the parades of July and of August, culminating in the 



52 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

glory of autumn! When, behold, as if Nemesis heark- 
ened, a little cloud appears in the azure sky, there is a 
flash of lightning, and the storm riots overhead, the gale 
rushing down to play havoc among our treasured posses- 
sions, while the rain falls in torrents. 

Creatures of fate that we are, it is folly to make com- 
plaint, and naught abides but hope, looking for sunshine 
in the sweet uses of adversity. And then comes the morn- 
ing after, and if we are not blinded by stubbornness we 
must rejoice in the splendid greens of rain-washed lawns 
and the exultant rustle of the refreshed trees. 

"Let patience have its perfect work," echoes the old 
phrase of wisdom, written by one who had not burned 
with a passion for gardens nor felt the smarts of disap- 
pointment. Yet what is there to do but to lean over the 
garden fence, and observe that our neighbors have fared 
alike? All must wait for things to dry, the pools to dis- 
appear, and the hills of sweet peas and the borders of 
annuals to take on a natural aspect. 

A warm May day is ideal weather ; and, as we watch, 
the hardy primroses seem to shake their leaves and to 
turn their frilled caps to the sky, the pansies smooth out 
their wrinkles, and forget-me-nots and arabis look as fresh 
as if nature had touched them up with a paintbrush. It 
we had our way there would be no spring thunder gusts, 
but the weather scheme takes into account the delights of 
surprises, and now in this, the day after, we discover that 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 53 

perhaps the rain was not so bad after all, and that flowers 
have a wonderful gift of looking out for themselves. 

As we lean over the garden fence, the heart leaps at the 
sight of dandelion gold. The host arrived in a single 
night, whole colonies and companies, to possess the land. 
Their advance sentinels came days ago, but who had 
pictured such an invasion, lavishly spreading carpets of 
purest gold along the roadside? 

The dandelion gatherer is harvesting in the fields 
yonder, the grass cutter stands with his lawn mower in 
the middle of the road and knits his brows over the mis- 
chievous plants that betrayed him while every well- 
behaved creature behind the fence was shrinking before 
the storm. His crony, an old gardener, comes along and, 
leaning on his rake, confesses that he has a tenderness for 
dandelions; that he likes to see a disk of gold among the 
dewy grass of the early morning; that he would invite a 
wee crimson-tipped daisy to make free with his lawn, and 
had smuggled in a camomile because it shed a fragrance 
when the foot crushed it while treading the grass. 

These give the human touch to the most perfect of 
seeded lawns, something to make the heart beat faster 
for beauty's sake, a modest flower to recall a poet, a blos- 
som to breathe fragrance and to entertain the errant bee. 

Thus the law of perfection is put to naught if you 
lend an ear to the personal equation; but, as John Sed- 
ding, prince of garden lovers, has said, while men are 



54 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

what they are art is not all. Man has viking passions 
as well as Eden instincts, and the over-civilized man who 
scorns feasting with common folk has lost primal sympa- 
thy and much happiness. 

The sin of exclusiveness joins the theory of order in 
advising the rejection of dandelions, daisies, and others 
escaped from gardens. The flaunting tulip, in a fringed 
coat of many colors, with a pedigree from Van Dam of 
Holland which has cost more dollars than the dandelion 
gatherer will ask in cents for a bushel of her spoils, roots 
and all, dares not touch the hem of the dandelion or camo- 
mile garment when it comes to the sturdy virtues of per- 
sistence, endurance, and smiling in the face of adversity. 

And so it is with the host of the common people to-day 
and to-morrow, ever attending to business in sunshine and 
in rain, the best of company, striking roots deeper and 
living up to the faith that 

"Who shuts his hand hath lost its gold, 
Who opens it hath it twice told," 

as George Herbert so prettily tells it. He too belonged 
to the brotherhood, and bequeathed us a magic book. 

When dandelions blow and the roadsides in the coun- 
try are purple with violets, fair Phyllis in the garden 
longs to transplant wild flowers to her beds and make 
them her own. Violets will come gladly, because in their 



THE USES OF ADVERSITY 5$ 

associations with human folk they have philosophically 
adapted themselves to changes of moods and will ac- 
commodate themselves to circumstances. Other wildings 
are not so hardy, the shock of transplanting and the 
absence of wild earth, of decayed leaves, or undisturbed 
soil, trouble their nerves, and rather than keep up a piti- 
ful struggle they give up the ghost and vanish from the 
ken of society. 

A tragedy comes to pass in woodland life when some 
well-meaning flower lover uproots hepaticas, trilliums, 
columbine, wild flowers, and all the pretty folk, carries 
them withering in a basket, and strives to make them 
adorn the earth in prim rows in a flower bed; but if one is 
so fortunate as to own a corner of waste woodland, or a 
ravine, then wild-flower planting is an opportunity. 

There we may scatter with lavish hands the seeds of 
partridge berry, broom and furze, plant sweetbrier, witch- 
hazel, wild roses and wild crab, and root beelwort, Solo- 
mon's seal, and Jack-in-the-pulpit. Thunder storms may 
shatter the elements, but a wild-flower garden of this kind 
will laugh it to scorn and become a haven for wild beauties 
of feathers and of fur as well as of flowers of the earth. 



WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 

IN that castle in Spain we have dreamed of for our sun- 
set years when leisure awaits our bidding, all clocks 
will chime the waking hour at break of day. None of the 
roseate loveliness of dawn will escape us, and we shall be 
abroad to keep company with the songsters and the busy 
folk of the feathered and winged world. They haste 
about their business as soon as it is light; and we shall go 
to our rest when they have ceased from their labors and 
the twilight has lowered the purple curtains of night. 

The present scheme of the day's work is not best for 
successful gardening, for while the gardener takes a morn- 
ing nap all nature gets in extra stints of labor. Only yes- 
terday weeding began, and for that unwonted season of 
energy soul was tardy in inspiring flesh to shake off its 
slumbers and take itself briskly out of doors. 

Memories of weed pulling weighed heavily, like the 
burden of Atlas, stirring the sources of vexation. While 
we had long since convinced ourselves that we had risen 
superior to growing pains and wisdom teeth, a painful 
reminder besets the joints, perchance an ancestral gift of 
housemaid's knee, a crick in the back, or, that vicious 

56 



WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 57 

thing, an error of the imagination, clouding hopeful en- 
thusiasm and blinding the sight to visions of blooming 
gardens. 

If the little breeze should cease playing interludes on 
the wind harp on the sill, the curtain would be drawn in 
an instant to shut out the inviting sunshine and the jeers 
of blue jays, and the satisfied "cheer-up, cheer-up" of the 
robins, all of which are a reproach and a warning. From 
past experiences we know only too well that weeds grow 
apace these fine mornings, and early birds levy taxes on 
lettuce beds and give thanks after salad. 

Weeding time is here, alas! and fasting hours for 
nature that flies or crawls. Rather a cushioned chair on 
the sheltered side of the porch, a book or two, Omar or 
Walden, and let the time fleet pleasantly, than a weeding 
rug, the broad-brimmed hat, gloves, a basket, trowel, and 
clippers. Yes, the secret of discontent is out — weeding 
time is here. 

Bestir yourself, idle gardener! Watchfulness is the 
price of virtue, industry the foe of garden flowers. While 
you have slept on your pillow and neglected reverence at 
the shrine of a sunrise in June, selfish longings for com- 
fort have filled your mind, and weeds have pushed roots 
deep into the soil of the flower beds. Cutworms have 
made cruel sport, and sparrows and doves have played 
havoc with tender sprouts. 

Why should birds hunt seed boxes on bird tables when 



58 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

tempting greens grow for their eating, and that strange 
human in the sunbonnet, who coaxes or "shoos" as the 
notion is upon her, is wasting the best hours of the 
twenty-four thinking about herself? Look forth from 
the window and behold a sorry sight, my idle gardener. 
No wonder the blue jay laughed wildly, the catbird was 
gleeful with satire, or the woodpecker beat a triumphant 
tattoo on the trunk of the hollow oak — everything abroad 
has been a living legend of enterprise. 

Even now more sparrows are busy among the radishes 
and young onions than we thought could be trapped in the 
neighborhood. Blackbirds and robins together are pull- 
ing worms in the pansy beds, yet there seems a lurking 
guilt back of the unconscious posing, and a suspicion that 
they are spying out the color of ripening cherries on our 
one treasured tree. Worm pulling may be but a diver- 
sion to pass the time, and who knows if birds may not take 
lessons from the handsome bantam rooster which crept 
under the fence and is making the dirt fly where we sowed 
the imported seeds from Japan*? 

Every plan for striking terror to the heart of the enemy 
has failed. The fluttering flags, presumed to suggest 
traps to sparrows, wave among the green like so many 
signals of peace, and both scarecrows and stuffed owls 
have come to naught. 

A warbler is perched on the shoulder of the mummied 
bird of night, singing a joyous lyric, and I verily believe 



WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 59 

that the china cat, cozily dozing on the fence to be a 
menace to hungry doves, was touched with a wand over- 
night and invited all stray kittens to join her and make 
merry. Surely that is a fluffy angora on its back, playing 
with the strings stretched for the passion vine, a precious 
vine carried from an old plantation down in Alabama; 
and, if eyes do not deceive, another kitten is hunting 
catnip among the flourishing fringed -phlox and snap- 
dragons. Had we been up with the dawn this would not 
have happened. 

"To sum up the whole matter, this unmitigated hostil- 
ity of the cultured man (with Jacob's smooth hand and 
Esau's wild blood) to the amenities of civilized life, 
brings us back to the point whence we started at the com- 
mencement of this chapter. While men are what they 
are, art is not all. Man has viking passions as well as 
Eden instincts. Man is of mixed blood, whose sym- 
pathies are not so much divided as double. And all man 
asks for is all of nature, and is not content with less. To 
the over-civilized man — " 

This was the page at which the book fell open beside 
the breakfast plate, and we lost the aroma of the first cup 
of coffee reading more. The unfolding of the scheme of 
life, whether in gardens or on streets, is just this thing — 
pitched battle with two enemies, that of inclination and 
that of the tide of human fellows and nature's followers 
at our elbows. Turn the fight to rout one, and the other 



60 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

gains the ascendency; if we plume ourselves on rounding 
out personal life, conceit plants a thousand faults to 
sprout amain, and jealous enemies unite for our destruc- 
tion. If we forget self, on the other hand, to uproot the 
weeds and drive off aggressors, then the selfish fibers of 
our hearts harden, the vision narrows, and the contest 
robs man of his divinity. 

So fares the battle, and with the knowledge of it we 
pray in the dark and work by day, asking for grace and 
wielding the pruning hook alternately with the sword. 
It is a glad fight when one resolves to be captain of his 
soul. The Eden instincts soar for ideals; the viking blood 
sweeps from reach the returning savage. Yes, it 's a brave 
fight, this adventure of living, and a bit of byplay is the 
weeding. 

After breakfast coffee the world looks brighter, and we 
are willing to extend pardons to all early birds who 
would feast on rising. As soon as the sunbonnet appears 
at the doorway the scamps wing to their places in the 
trees, and perhaps after all they have only eaten a proper 
share of nature's providing. Who would do without 
robins, for all the pansy beds; who would exterminate a 
catbird because of his pranks, or banish the social spar- 
rows'? Under the sapphire blue of skies in June the 
heart expands in good will and sings the great Ode to 
Joy to an orchestration of winds in the trees and music of 



WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 61 

the spheres, finer harmonies than the mighty hymn in 
Beethoven's symphony. 

The roses are bursting their buds, the syringas nave 
opened their crystalline blossoms with hearts of pure gold, 
shedding fragrance sweeter than any other, and even the 
weeds that have stolen entrance are looking their prettiest. 
"Weeding hour is here; do not delay for beauty's sake," 
warns the wise old gardener. "Little weeds grow to be 
usurpers, little sins steal life away; therefore steel your 
heart against them all" — the saucy plantain "soldiers" 
fringed so daintily with lace adornments, shepherd's purse 
with silver bloom, the Indian hemp bent on conquest like 
some young Samson, the encroaching burdock with trop- 
ical foliage, and the crab grass as persistent and deter- 
mined as a social climber. 

What enemy sowed them in the night*? What a foot- 
hold they have gained in moonlight growing, how nobly 
constructed to dare and endure and to preserve their 
family untarnished by degeneracy! Yet their energy is 
misplaced, and this fine quality, so admirable, is ban- 
ished from the garden to make green the waste places 
along the roadside because they lack sweetness and light. 
Mine be the garden of fragrance, of color, and of gentle 
flowers; so let's to the weeding! 

The confidence of the birds is a continual wonder. 
They have made themselves at home without once asking 
"by your leave — if you please," just as if they had read 



62 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

by a secret telepathy that we were willing to take them 
into partnership if they would only abide by the laws of 
sharing equally. No human would dare to assert such 
airs of independence, no neighbor presume to do what 
they exploit in perfect freedom from the conventions of 
good society. 

They know no world but the wide world, and taking 
their heads from under their wings between bat's flight 
and cock's crow, that stillest hour before the dawn, set 
about singing as if all the world were ready to get up and 
go forth rejoicing. We have met those who grumble that 
the country is too noisy with its songsters, cocks, and 
crickets. But hearken, do not these betray the misfor- 
tune of ears stopped with selfishness and love of the pil- 
low after day has lighted her candles'? When one has 
tuned one's soul to music, the bird chorus is a pean of joy 
not to be sung to instruments of strings or reeds, but 
sacred alone to the feathered creatures beloved by St. 
Francis. 

Who, looking upon budding nature, does not sigh for 
the old days of faith, when art grew under the inspiration 
of human souls and became the flower of the Renaissance 
to glorify the gloomy houses of worship, to give reverence 
to childhood and motherhood, even to sanctify the singing 
of birds ? Blessed be St. Francis of Assisi, who brought 
love, human and divine, to gardens, to link nature 
v/ith art. No more gentle touch comes to us down the 



WHEN SOUL HELPS FLESH 63 

centuries from that strange age of riotous living and the 
making of saints than the sermon of St. Francis to the 
winged creatures that came to the convent gate. 

Here under the trees, with the robins overhead making 
melody, the thrush calling from the shrubbery, the twit- 
ter of the nestlings of wrens sounding like distant flutes, 
may we read in the old book that, as the saint had 
admonished them and lifted his hand in blessing, "those 
birds began all of them to open their beaks, and stretch 
their necks, and spread their wings, and reverently bend 
their heads down to the ground, and by their acts and by 
their songs to show that the holy Father gave them joy 
exceeding great. And S. Francis rejoiced with them, and 
was glad, and marveled much at so great a company of 
birds and their most beautiful diversity and their good 
heed and sweet friendliness, for the which cause he de- 
voutly praised their Creator in them. 

"At the last, having ended the preaching, S. Francis 
made over them the sign of the cross, and gave them leave 
to go away; and thereby all the birds with wondrous sing- 
ing rose up in the air; and then, in the fashion of the cross 
that S. Francis had made over them, divided themselves 
into four parts ; and the one part flew toward the East and 
the other toward the West, and the other toward the 
South and the fourth toward the North, and each flight 
went on its way singing wondrous songs." 

There is room for me and for thee, bird neighbor, 



64 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

though tender herbs and cherries sweet are to thy liking. 
Go thy ways, and come again. 

Over yonder flits another winged intruder, paying ad- 
mission in the coin of beauty. It is the butterfly, and 
with him comes his kindred of moths and other bright, 
gauzy creatures. Truly the butterflies among the blos- 
soms and the birdlings in the flowering thorn are appro- 
priate combinations without fault in poetry. As we fling 
the sparkling jewel weed over the fence, and uproot the 
sweet-smelling catnip trying to get foothold among the 
mignonette, the same fierce feeling of savagery rises at 
the sight of the white moths waving their wings above the 
nasturtiums. Well we know that not a royal butterfly 
soars in from the meadow but is bent on a mission to take 
toll or ask board for its offspring. 

The weeding industry may cover a multitude of sins 
and questions which are debatable when there is argu- 
ment over the rights of possession. To whom does this 
garden belong — to catnip and its confreres, to the robins 
and the sparrows, to the butterfly kingdom, or to a wan- 
dering soul beset with weeds of character who dreamed of 
planting virtues and reaping heavenly rewards'? 




A WATER GARDEN AT TULANE UNIVERSITY, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA 



AS FANCY FLIES 

MY neighbor has a funny weathercock in the guise of 
a jaunty sailorman who balances the year around 
on a frigate sailing without making a single port in the 
skyey seas above the gable of an old barn. If it were not 
for the gallant sailorman breasting the gales with never a 
shadow of doubt of winds that blow, hasting in the teeth 
of the storm with the defiant courage of a Flying Dutch- 
man, the outlook from that home window would be 
grievous to the artistic eye. The little sailorman saves 
the day, shaping a world of his own for the imagination. 

Often in August a morning-glory vine climbs from the 
hidden garden below to deck his ship with flowers, while 
a scarlet runner creeps along the ridgepole to lay its blos- 
soms at his feet. In autumn a bittersweet lifts its berries 
temptingly above the shingles, as if trying to lure him 
from his course, and all summer the birds, paying for 
lodging in melody, rest in their flight upon his decks. 

At last, when winter snowdrifts heap about the lonely 
figure, he is left in solitude to steer with the wind; and 
those with books before the fireplace, who look forth to 
take his signals, bless the little sailorman as an eye-trap 

65 



66 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

never failing to harbor the restless thought and to turn it 
skyward to ways of faith and courage. 

So truly a neighborhood character is this gayly painted 
weather vane that we are fain to believe its placing was 
decreed in the book of fate, and its maker rewarded for 
his deed. The gardeners thereabouts have perfect confi- 
dence in his predictions, and note if southerly breezes are 
warming the earth for sweet-pea growing; if it is safe to 
plant delicate seeds and to take storm windows from the 
east side of the house. Or does chance ordain that the 
frigate and its commander turn northwest, then the trowel 
is laid in the tool box and the garden hat hung behind the 
door. At the time of the equinox he records the prevail- 
ing winds, and in those desperate moments before a 
thunderstorm his good ship plunges and wavers like a 
rudderless craft in the grasp of the sea. 

While a close touch of sympathy binds us to the for- 
tunes of the weather vane — for are we not all to a certain 
degree weather vanes ourselves, helpless in the winds of 
fate? — the sundial affords another eye-trap to feed the 
mind upon, keeping us in touch with nature's ways of the 
upper air. 

Dear, simple-minded Gilbert White writes that "gen- 
tlemen who have outlets might contrive to make ornament 
subservient to utility; a pleasing eye-trap might also con- 
tribute to promote science, an obelisk in a garden or park 
might be both an embellishment and a heliotrope." 



AS FANCY FLIES 67 

This is truly a pretty fancy, and reason enough to in- 
vite our sculptor friend to shape two obelisks, works of 
art, to serve as heliotropes, one for winter and one for 
summer, giving pleasure to those delightful souls who 
never cease to wonder at the course of the sun. "The 
erection of the former," writes White, "should, if pos- 
sible, be placed within sight of some window in the com- 
mon sitting parlor, because men in the dead season of 
the year are usually within doors at the close of the day; 
while that for the latter might be fixed for any given spot 
in the garden, when the owner might contemplate, on a 
fine summer's evening, the utmost extent that the sun 
makes to the northward at the season of the longest days." 

And in the same garden, let us add, let there be a 
rustic seat or two, beneath a sweet-smelling shrub, and 
within hearing of running water. 

There is room for a sundial in the smallest garden, as 
it takes but little space, and honeysuckle or roses may 
embower it if one does not care for the clinging ivy. The 
creeping shadow on its face seems to link the effulgent 
glory of supernal day with the sunshine in our own little 
plot, and the passing hours glide away more sweetly 
when vanishing in silence. 

A vast expanse of lawn is a dreary place without some 
note of play — an eye-trap, as it were, to catch the mind 
in nets of beauty or pleasure-faring thought. A circle of 
daisies will change such a lawn to a fairyland, a bird 



68 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

table entertain songsters unawares, a flock of feeding 
sheep make it a picture, a fountain suggest the naiad in 
its rippling waters ; and the sundial and heliotrope count 
the hours of sunshine. 

The great game of life is an endless round of tricks 
and diversions, of which garden-making is but a side 
play. If we are bold enough to shake off the shadows of 
domineering self and look out of our windows, setting 
our eye-traps, the play takes on a thrilling interest. 
How often do beauty seekers go out of the path to enjoy 
an old oak draped in vines, apparently an unconscious 
decoration of a modest yard*? Who does not know of a 
trellis purple with hanging wistaria in June, or a rose- 
wreathed doorway, or an outlook from some window 
through trees that have been trimmed to make an ex- 
tended view over the hills and far away? 

Thoughtless friend, not one of these has come by 
chance. All are designed eye-traps; and you do your 
part by making more within doors by hanging a picture, 
and outdoors by planting a vine, making a woodland 
shrine, a bank for the wild thyme, or a nook fit for fairies 
and elves. 

Nature is a veritable enchantress, and willingly lends 
her art to a few little tricks to inveigle the lagging 
dreams. Vines in particular are her favorite means of 
creating surprises. It would be fair to call them the 
"wild highlanders" of flower folk, wayward, usurping, 



AS FANCY FLIES 69 

usually having their own way, and not to be depended 
on to do as you wish. 

The gentle gardener never lacks variety in her vines, 
nor do any other plants better repay for care, weaving 
, fragrant bowers, covering walls, hiding unsightly places, 
and taking no space at all when trained up the corner of 
the house or over a dead tree. Fortunately the roots are 
to be bought and will live for years if granted winter 
protection. The wild grape is to be encouraged; and 
where else is there such sweetness*? The purple and 
white clematis, the sweet honeysuckle, Dutchman's pipe, 
trumpet creeper, and rambling roses, each and all are 
just waiting the chance to make an eye-trap. 

"When thou dost a rose behold, say I send it greet- 
ing," sang the poet Heine in an immortal song of spring; 
that, with another charming Lied, "In wondrous lovely 
month of May, when all the buds are opening," has in- 
spired melody in music makers since his time, and stirs 
the hearts of singers everywhere in tune with nature. At 
this hour, when jocund day is smiling over fields and 
garden, if we listen we can hear songs of spring echoing 
through the groves and tinkling among the flower bells 
and from the trumpets of lilacs and sweet honeysuckles. 

Joy shines in the faces of the quaint velvet-bonneted 
pansies, a finer fragrance exhales from the blushing crab- 
apple blossoms as we pay reverence to their beauty. In 
the woodland the atmosphere is alive with bird twitters, 



70 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and soft whisperings of the breeze celebrate the festival 
of purple phlox, wake-robins, buttercups, violets, and 
radiant marsh marigolds reflecting purest sunshine where 
the brook winds into the open meadows. 

Sing, one and all, and send greeting in this "wondrous 
lovely month of May," when the human heart receives 
once more celestial benediction from the skies, and can 
swing its censer with the incense of love and adoration 
for all thoughts bright and beautiful, and none dares say 
it nay. 

Look out of thy window and abroad. What is there 
within eye reach to meet in kindly greeting beyond the 
sprouts in your flower beds'? What torch have you 
kindled to lighten a flame at your neighbor's shrine 1 ? 
You need not journey to Lassa to meet curiosity and 
strange folk, nor need you draw money from the bank to 
buy a tonic to warm hearts. 

There is a little crooked fence, maybe, near the back 
door, separating your lot from the weedy wilderness of 
the busy person hard by. Imagine her delight when she 
looks out of her north window some morning and sees a 
barren line of boards covered with climbing nasturtiums 
unfurling chalices of ruddy orange and gold amid set- 
tings of malachite. 

If by chance a passer-by takes his privilege of cutting 
blooms creeping through the palings, what matter 1 ? You 
have sent a greeting of flowers to some one who wanted 



AS FANCY FLIES 71 

them; and alas! if it is permitted to turn to shadows for 
a brief minute, how often do we send flowers where they 
are not greeted, because that soul has not awakened to 
their tender beauty. 

I should like to cherish the faith that there was a 
subtle kinship between the flower lover and the flower; 
and surely if one has known many gardens he must be- 
lieve that flowers respond to a spiritual greeting and 
fade under cold neglect, though conditions of earth and 
air seem to be proper. 

Our own little garden world being weeded and doing 
its best at this high tide of the year, growing with all its 
might, one may take thought if the flowers of tradition 
have had due reward. There are the Johnny-jump-ups, 
the common daisy, primroses, cowslips, stocks, and fox- 
gloves, the flowers of the story book filling the dream 
gardens. 

The Johnny-jump-ups, once invited within your gate, 
remain evermore, and hard must be the heart that would 
turn them out to make room for an exotic or strange 
annual. Plant them where there will be little change of 
beds, and if a fence is near they will throw seeds through 
the opening; and some day you will see your neighbor 
bending over them with delight, or hear the shouts of 
children coming home from school who have discovered 
a saucy Johnny keeping company with a bouncing Bet 
long since escaped from gardens, and taking to the road 



72 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

like any Romany lass born to the camp fire and tent 
under the stars. 

Primroses are shyer folk that need shelter, and in a 
protected corner, with sweet-scented stocks, hose-in-hose, 
and cowslips, will return with the bluebirds in spring 
and wait for the foxgloves to nod above them in June. 
The pinks open many a lovely old-fashioned blossom, 
transplanting with grateful compliments. 

It is pleasant to remember that all these dear old- 
fashioned flowers are travelers, and have girdled the 
earth in their times. The primulas are natives from the 
rock heights of the Himalayas and distant Siberia, 
the Johnny- jump-ups climb to the Alpine snow-line of 
the Jungfrau, and the pinks were bred on the margins of 
glaciers from Norway to the Pyrenees and the head- 
waters of the Amoor. 

They are citizens of the world, scattering beauty and 
flowers along common ways, and why not help them on 
their ceaseless march by sowing broadcast their seeds in 
waste places, with more of the pink-tipped and wild field 
daisy, the Shirley poppy, the sweet William and bouncing 
Bet? 

None of these ask for luxury, only craving permission 
to root, and paying toll in blossoms that, plucked, bring 
twice as many later on. Now and then in some out-of- 
the-way corner of the world we meet a member of the 
brotherhood of flower missioners who looks beyond his 



AS FANCY FLIES 73 

own plantations. When no one is spying he plants a 
vine, a traveler's joy, a trumpet creeper, or a wild grape 
along a fence to adorn the road and give pleasure to all 
that pass thereby, especially to those on whom the 
world's work bears heavily, leaving no time for garden- 
ing, but whose hearts are aching with stifled longings for 
beauty and natural things. 

It is the generous act of a minute to plant a wayside 
flower, and the sin of the weed-grown waste is on our 
heads if we neglect it when for a farthing and a thought 
we might make it a beauty spot. 

It is the fulfillment of a loyal natuie to treasure a love 
for old-fashioned flowers. If childhood has left any 
pictures of youthful fairyland, there is sure to be some 
lore of fragrant May pinks and flowers in an old garden 
which has woven a thread enriching memory in company 
with strains of old songs and snatches of verse more 
beautiful than any that we have known in later years. 

Perhaps the garden was a clover field in June, a hill- 
side white with daisies, a rock bed where the red colum- 
bine swung its trumpets, or a meadow with shooting 
stars; and this, linked to the little beds of posies we 
called our own, made a haunt never to be forgotten. 
Childhood is a precious season, eager and hopeful, and 
he who may instill flower love in children gives a magic 
gift and unlocks a sympathy with nature beyond the 
effacing hand of time or fortune. 



THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 

"TT'S June, dear June; now God be praised for 
A June"; June, brooding above the timeworn earth, 
enticing to life the glory of summertide; June, of sap- 
phire skies and golden sunlight; June, of fragrant, flower- 
scented nights; June, gypsying in the fields afire with 
scarlet poppies, garlanding the marshes with iris, painting 
blushes on the peonies of the gardens, and waking the 
songs of birdland in ferny brake, in thickets, and in tree 
top! What to compare with June"? In what season of 
the year is life more worth the living 1 ? 

Yesterday the columbines were supreme in the borders ; 
they swung their trumpets in the breeze. And had our 
ears been tuned to such fairy music we would have 
known that to-day would be the royal pageant of the 
iris. Some time in the early morning the bladed swords 
guarding their loveliness were withdrawn, and now we 
may behold them like a winged angelic host arrayed in 
the palest silver, pearly white, and the purple of kings, 
melting into the faint harmonies of rainbow tints that 
might have been reflected from the foamy crest of an 
ocean wave. 

74 



THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 75 

A gardener born to his honors should be capable of 
generous friendships and endowed with a heart over- 
flowing with religious devotion. As a people we are held 
fast to an old Saxon trait that forbids showing our emo- 
tions and letting their warmth radiate kindness on all 
about us, but to the gardener comes the privilege of love 
and worship for those within the circle of his horizon. 

Think of the wanderer this morning who is out before 
the breeze has stolen the dew from the daisies on the 
lawn, prostrating his soul before the effulgence of the 
rising sun with the faith of a fire worshiper of the source 
of light and life. He turns to the trinity symbolized in 
the iris, the fatherhood, brotherhood, and world-wide 
sympathy for struggling life, and partakes of the joy of 
hope and faith in an eternal purpose breathed from every 
flower uplifted toward the skies. 

This is the true spirit of the devotional impulse of 
adoration and thanksgiving, beneath the dome of the 
skies, with nature's own incense filling the air in the 
great silence of the out of doors. The lily family alone 
of all the flower sisterhood has the right to provoke this 
feeling. 

That grand old scientist, Professor Ernst Haeckel, 
speaks of the iris as endowed with "sensible loveliness." 
Dull must we be if this mystery fails us, and no sym- 
pathy rises in the heart as we approach a stately company 
of these queenly flowers, which are so fragile, so pure, 



76 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

that humility oppresses us with a sense of unfitness in 
the presense of such perfection. 

The rose is the queen of the garden, voluptuous, ap- 
pealing to the sense, but queen above queens, a Mona 
Lisa, a Lady Godiva, knowing life, knowing love and 
sorrow, reigns the iris, a blossom not for the plucking, 
but to be planted at the foot of ruined altars, to remind 
that faith may rise triumphant on unsullied wings. 

Another devotee of the iris said that when a group 
chanced to meet his eye in an English garden he was 
reminded of the gladiatorial hall, "Morituri te salutant" 
and Eden Phillpotts believes that they are to the garden 
what Chopin is to music, "the most wonderful, beautiful, 
and saddest of flowers; we sometimes miss the spirit in 
them, while overjoyed or overawed by the substance." 

If you do not know the iris you have missed something 
in life. The garden books have not so much to say about 
the family as they should, being occupied with the com- 
moners, which may be met on more equal terms. Why 
we should shrink at approaching superiors I do not know, 
but if by chance a flower or a friend unveils mystery, in 
a moment we straightway seek out folk of our own kind 
whom we are sure of, and do not go forward on our 
knees and lift the veil to partake of the blessing of a 
nobler presence and the "benediction of the higher 
mood." 

The superb varieties of iris grow as easily as their 



THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 77 

relative wildings, which we seek in the swamps and plant 
in the marshy spots of our grounds. If one has reached 
that stage of years when his consciousness warns him 
that it is time to choose companionship to solace the hour 
when the race is to the swift, a garden inclosure to shut 
off the clamor of battle that tires the ears, then hunt for 
a favored spot that will make a bower of green in June. 

Then with grave thought of what may fill your soul 
in the glory of June, choose iris susiana, the great Turkey 
fleur-de-lis, the mourning flower of the Japanese, "that 
I think in the whole compasse of nature's store there is 
not a more patheticall," writes quaint John Parkinson, 
and to the queen susiana present the king loreteti, the 
emblem of life and dawn in his brilliance and purity. 

As soon as the frost withdraws from the earth the 
irises show the tips of their green blades, which advance 
in regular order from the underworld until a solid 
phalanx fills the space allotted to them. Nothing so 
cleanly or shining or strong as this splendid bed of foli- 
age, making ready for the culmination of its growing. 
On the morning appointed it bursts upon the eye in a 
splendor of purples, lavenders, violets, and yellows that 
pales the sunshine. 

The honey scent once breathed is unforgotten among 
the experiences enriching a lifetime, and as the iris 
passion grows upon us, and more and more of the lovely 
species from China, Japan, Italy, or the secluded vales 



78 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

of the Himalayas come to dwell in our gardens, we may- 
take comfort in the thought that we are gathering the 
rarest offerings of June, the gladdest of all seasons to 
him who hath the secret learned "to mix his blood with 
sunshine and to take the wind into his pulses." 

In mid-June comes an hour when garden color weaves 
a tapestried background for the parade of the Oriental 
poppies. Matchless in their beauty of scarlet and black, 
bursting their buds in the gray of a dawn, vanishing in 
the purple of dusk, it is well worth waiting a year to 
greet them as they flit across the threshold of summer in 
their brief span of life. 

If you know the poppies' haunts haste to seek them 
out, — the odalisk, the gypsy queen, in fluted petticoats 
of red, flaunting their graces above fringes of silver 
green, passing languorously in a dance they learned long 
ago on the plain of Ind. They turn toward us with a 
look of mystery, and sway upon their stems as a Romany 
maid upon her dancing feet. 

Why do they not speak*? The violet exchanges shy 
confidences in perfume, the tiger lily confesses volumes 
in sphinxlike wisdom, and we are loath to let the Oriental 
poppy escape without a hearing; its attitude is so elo* 
quent, its personality so vivid and glowing, and it nods 
as if it knew the secret of the ages. 

Poppy friendship is a curious sentiment; it promises 
much, and when about to unfold its passion withdraws, 



THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 79 

leaving behind it a warmth of devotion to its beauty and 
a tender sorrow that more of it was not ours. It is pleas- 
ant to imagine it has a place in the pretty theory of the 
transmigration of souls, wherein man's imperfect aspira- 
tions unfold by slow degrees from the nature of the 
insensate clod, gaining in spiritual loveliness through a 
cycle of many lives. 

Why not, after wasting brute passion in the tiger, 
exhausting foolish loquacity in the parrot, soaring 
toward unattainable heights with the eagle, trying many 
paths to knowledge in the devious ways open to myriad- 
minded man — why not go a step farther and rest for a 
time to "climb to a soul in grass and flowers'"? 

You, perchance, in your pride, the tulip of the spring; 
your neighbor, the rose of a hundred leaves, and she with 
a desire for sunlight and color, an Oriental poppy, to 
dazzle the world with a spectacle of the garden afire, to 
shed beauty on the wind, and to take flight to other 
worlds when June has reached her perfect days. 

Like the majority of good people we overlook in the 
crowds, day after day, whose virtues are not known until 
they do something to separate themselves from their 
fellows, there are many reliable garden flowers escaping 
the recognition of the passer-by until they reach the 
great events of their existence and astonish his eyes with 
blossoms, and he beholds an old friend before him. 

Not so with the poppy tribes, which have an individ- 



80 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

uality so marked that the garden weeder does not mis- 
take them for waifs and strays when weeds are making 
a strong fight for possession. The infant poppy pushes 
a quaint little rosette of pale green leaves to the surface, 
the field poppy showing smooth texture and the Oriental 
one roughly furred. And as the warm rains fall they 
hold fast to this personal trait, standing alone in a blue- 
white among the somber foliage of foxgloves, cam- 
panulas, queens of the meadow, Canterbury bells, and 
larkspur. 

All are ready for bloom at the midday of June, but 
nature seems aware it is the triumph of the Oriental 
poppy, and the unfurling buds of campanulas show dull 
blues, the foxgloves old rose and white, and other per- 
ennials join with pale yellows, bronze, and varied greens, 
as if agreed on harmony to create the scheme of richest 
cashmere color. 

Then there dawns a rare day when the Oriental pop- 
pies spread their blood-red petals of crepy delicacy, 
opening wide their dusky purple hearts, and exhaling 
heavy, slumber-compelling odors, breathing the spell of 
the enchantment of summer. It is a triumph among 
nature's surprises. 

The little field poppies, whose torches gleam in the 
yellow harvest fields and keep aflame all summer, are the 
broomstick witches of the wayside. There are dull days 
when I feel that it would pay "to go ten thousand 



THE HIGH TIDE OF JOY 81 

miles," as the old song has it, to look upon a hillside 
abloom with scarlet poppies. And when the sun rays are 
long and golden, lighting up the hidden fires in the 
poppy cups, the nodding blooms in the country lanes 
seem like the red kerchiefs on the heads of shy gypsy 
maids hasting to keep a tryst. 

The garden log book records that the blackbirds sing 
in the linden trees, and weeds and white butterflies share 
joy and sorrow with the festival of the Oriental poppies. 
Butterfly sport seems a little business; not so little, how- 
ever, if you divide your heart between Oriental poppies 
and nasturtiums when the moon shines on midsummer 
nights. The swashbuckling cavaliers of the poppy world 
hide a bitterness in their veins to forbid salad-loving 
caterpillars, and even little flies and ants keep their dis- 
tance. But the gentle nasturtium falls victim if no 
butterfly net is out to capture white butterflies and 
moths, and a "prevention of cruelty to animals member" 
makes up her mind that it is a case of the fittest to 
survive. 

Weed pulling must alternate with butterfly hunting 
until plants are big enough to shadow the earth, and 
then it must be butterfly hunting until frost. Both exer- 
cises are admirable to play upon muscles and temper, 
and more wholesome discipline than many a medieval 
penance we might name. 

The whistle of the blackbird in the linden, celebrating 



82 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

the arrival of his first family in the nest and doing 
nothing in particular to help it along, is an exasperating 
neighbor. If only we knew how to train robins and 
blackbirds to feast on nasturtium caterpillars instead of 
boring the turf for earthworms, we would acquire ever- 
lasting fame in the garden books. 

The nasturtium friend has two duties at his hand — 
butterfly and moth hunts and green-caterpillar catching. 
After all, why grumble 4 ? All is in the day's work, and 
the nasturtium border in cloth of gold, dewy, pungent, 
and beyond compare, is a reward. The south wind 
carries the fragrance of the linden bloom down to the 
weeding woman; the blackbird trills again that note of 
ravishing sweetness. It is the old tale of work and play, 
and to keep at it in good spirits is to make ready for the 
next transformation of June. 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 

A JOURNEY into the walled heart of a town, a 
night spent where every vista leads to chimneys or 
to the glittering allurements of city amusements, is most 
salutary when the demon of restlessness stays the hand 
from weeding. Who can measure the gladness of the re- 
turn 1 ? Who can picture that longing to be great enough 
to command, and rich enough to create, hanging gardens, 
wooded squares, and flowery terraces here and there and 
everywhere in the labyrinth of houses'? 

Praying that an enlightened age may hasten the day 
when it shall be so, let us hasten to find a seat on the 
shaded side of the car whence the view will open on the 
park where the avenues of catalpas are holding aloft 
their bouquets of blossoms, and the lindens are opening 
their waxen bells for the honeybees. Along the way is a 
clover field, small clumps of blushing Alsatian clover, 
acting as forerunners to the acres of white across the 
road, where cattle stand knee deep in the perfection of 
June pastures. 

And then comes "improved property." Why "im- 
proved," we wonder, with suburban homes touching 

83 



84 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

elbows in twenty-five-foot lots, when the open country 
stretches free all around, and there might have been 
space for orchards and gardens? Will there not be a 
great awakening for builders of that kind some day, 
when they see the error of their ways'? 

The thought gathered like a dark cloud blown across 
a clear sky, and vanished before a whiff of fragrant rose- 
mary rising from the blossoming branches which a slim 
little woman in black, who had just entered the car, had 
knotted in the corner of her handkerchief and was now 
pressing against her cheek. The atmosphere was re- 
freshed, and the landscape seemed to unveil another 
garden where the pungent smell of box trees arose from 
an inclosing hedge of glossy dark foliage, where myrtle 
covered a terrace which sloped down to an herb garden 
with its company of sweet-scented plants. 

. "Who loves his garden still keeps his Eden" — for him 
paradise is regained very truly, as love is a generous re- 
vealer, bestowing a precious gift of insight; and the lover 
of gardens may conjure them from the past or plant 
them wherever an ounce of earth takes hold in a crannied 
wall. 

As the car sped on, the city smoke had settled on the 
distant horizon and the summer fields were making 
nature's gardens. It is wild-rose time, garlanding the 
prairies and forgotten byways; the spiderwort in in- 
imitable purple set among leaves of silvered green is 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 85 

spreading its beauty in the marshy hollows, and amid the 
ripened grasses are little colonies of boneset, everlasting, 
horsetail, and the first black-eyed Susans. 

While this beauty caught the eye it required no un- 
common self-control to refrain from talking to the slim 
young woman in black who carried the sprig of rosemary. 
Would it have been an intrusion 1 ? A short, fierce con- 
flict raged between the formal sense of propriety forbid- 
ding converse with strangers and the friendly impulse to 
exchange comment on the summer pageant with one who 
also liked rosemary. But the rare moment fled; before 
the shell of self was broken she had left the car, and a 
lonely little woman in black was taking her path down 
the dusty road between the fields of clover. Who knows 
but that we missed entertaining an angel unawares! 

Back within our garden gate we speedily greet our 
own rosemary tree. No one can ever accuse a devoted 
gardener of gardening for appearances. When this hap- 
pens by chance the garden tells on its maker in unmis- 
takable terms. It is artificial, it is empty of sentiment, 
and it is a fictitious thing. The true garden is the 
comfort of those who hunger for friends. Just as there 
are book friends and picture friends for our moods, so 
there are flower friends. In as fine a sense they are as 
dear and, it may be, as consoling as you who are best 
beloved among the human friends that walk the earth. 

Every child remembers the flower of his youth, and to 



86 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

many a one the sweet Williams have been the first. 
Here they are to-day in crimson, sanguine, and white. 
Stately and fringed, they have come for their summer 
visit. It was a happy thought to set them where they 
made a little hedge separating the herb garden from the 
posies. Long ago the old-man, lavender, thyme, and 
balm had a place among the hardy annuals in hopes that 
observant guests would come upon them unawares and 
be glad. And then followed the discovery that few take 
pleasure in odors, and fewer are observant; and the 
lemon verbena looked an alien, the old-man became 
shabby from the nippings of careless fingers, and the 
balm languished disconsolate. 

And so a sunny corner behind the sweet Williams was 
planted for sweet odors of old days. It seems that the 
talent to enjoy fragrance is after all a gift of highly 
developed senses. Even more than the sense of taste the 
nostrils have the power to touch the springs of a forgot- 
ten past, and to one a crushed calycanthus bud brings 
the picture of a Pennsylvania hamlet with luxuriant 
gardens back of green-shuttered houses nestled deep in 
the Cumberland Valley; a dried sweetbrier is the magic 
of a romance; a spray of lemon verbena conjures memory 
of a tiny red prayer book, a high-backed pew, and long, 
long sermons while the birds were singing in the weeping 
willows overhanging moss-grown gravestones beyond the 
church door. 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 87 

In the little herb garden behind the sweet Williams 
the rosemary spreads its branches next a graceful rue, the 
pennyroyal and fennel are side by side, the old-man is 
sacred from desecrating hands, and thyme grown from 
seeds sent from Hymettus invites American bees. A 
silver sage, the purple-tipped lavender, and sturdy catnip 
make as pretty a group as any in the flower garden, and 
the mints, savory, basil, and balm have each a place. 

The perfumes arising from the peonies, iris, and 
syringas culminate in the roses. Every blossom, how- 
ever humble — mignonettes, verbenas, alyssum — makes 
an offering filling the nights and the days with a fore- 
taste of scented breezes of a fairer world than ours. Go 
forth into the twilight and listen and wait in the stillness 
of the eve, and mayhap, like Socrates, you will fall upon 
your knees and pray: "O Pan, and all ye gods that 
haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward man" — 
nor dare there be any who will accuse you of irreverence 
to any in creation's plan. 

It hints of self-denial to steal a morning from the days 
appointed for roaming the clover fields to spend it on a 
shady porch filling rose jars with dried leaves to sweeten 
the atmosphere of January. If in summer the senses are 
elevated to the seventh heaven of delight by the odors 
wafted from hay fields, in winter they rise to an exhil- 
aration of exquisite pleasure upon entering a rose-scented 
room. 



88 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

The magic of the rose, its thousand legends, answer to 
the spell cast by the aroma of an opened rose jar diffus- 
ing its presence like the shade of a beneficent genie from 
the land of Aladdin. Its memories give us privilege to 
moralize as we sift our rose leaves and spices. We are 
reminded that it is well to snatch sunny moments from 
the pleasure hunt of youth, and fill rose jars of remi- 
niscences to make brightness in the winter of life. Ah, 
but who can think of winter when the wild rose is 
abloom*? Away with all shadows set in motion to a 
minor strain by the hour among slugs and red spiders ! 

The old spell of the rose is upon us. It is the same 
weaving of wizardry that gives dreams of the Persian 
gardens, where nightingales and dewdrops sing and die 
for the love of a rose. It is this perfume that over- 
powers the brain, and the sense goes meandering in the 
mysterious ways of poesy. Close your eyes, and with the 
rose close to your lips yield to the charm. 

It is all yours, this wealth of the world — the glamour 
of moonlight, the tinkle of a fountain, the song of a 
nightingale above the gentle twanging of a lute, and the 
fragrance of rose gardens in that far-away land of 
dreams — be it Persia or that one little garden hidden 
cherished in the memories of your heart. 

All this with the incense that rises from the crushed 
petals on the altar of the rose! 

Let us bury behind the books that unblushing 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 89 

romancer, the rose catalogue, which deceived us into 
believing that the prairies of the Illini might entertain 
hopes of bowers such as the talebearers told of the East. 
Led by their glamour we saw the beauty of lands of sun- 
shine, of vales of Cashmere, and Persian gardens where 
roses flourished of their own sweet will and scattered 
their fragrance to the thrumming of lutes, the trills of 
nightingales, and the quatrains of Omar. 

The decalogue has nothing against the sin of desire to 
be a "rosarian," and a sense of justice rebels at the 
thought of that night when a rose catalogue set the brain 
afire and put wisdom in the closet while opening the 
pocketbook. Of course the cherished roses have lived — 
just lived — to be a battlefield for microbes unseen, slugs 
and worms too evident. The crimson rambler rambles 
cheerfully, the rugosa is spreading its tropical foliage. 
They leave nothing to be desired as far as their duties are 
concerned; but ask not of the Provence roses, the Irish 
roses, the rare hybrids that have excited so keen a rivalry 
among the perverse creatures infesting the rose garden. 

At the end of the street is one of those old-fashioned 
cottages, now a dusky white, with timeworn green shut- 
ters. What man failed to do with his architectural 
opportunities, nature has done most willingly with roses. 
All the past month young and old have leaned over its 
paling fence and gloated upon its disorderly charms, and 
then passed on without a thought of the careful lawns 



90 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

beyond. The woman who lives in the dusky cottage has 
roses to spare, and yet has never read a rose book or 
aspired to be a "rosarian." 

The eglantine hedge, planted no one knows when, has 
crept around three sides of the lot within the paling 
fence, stretching out long, sweeping branches to arch the 
narrow gate. All the neighborhood knows that it is 
sweetbrier, and in June no schoolgirl who stops to greet 
its owner goes away without her bouquet. 

At the side of the porch is a clump of Scotch roses, a 
variety that has adopted the climate as its own, and, 
being another of the delicious scented sweetbriers, adds 
to its grace in small roses of lovely shining yellow, a 
transmuted sunshine, a cloth of gold, if ever one was 
permitted by fairydom to drape a rosebush. 

Not far away is another unnamed common rose — but 
is any rose common 4 ? It bears a thousand leaves treas- 
ured by the makers of rose jars, leaves that shed a richer 
odor on being crushed, just as some lives bring out their 
loftier virtues under the pressure of adversity. The 
Baltimore belle and prairie queen have wreathed the 
window frames, and among the tangled grass below the 
wild prairie roses have crept in from the roadside with 
bouncing Bets and yarrow. 

As we turn the corner of the house where the sun 
glares down on the clayey soil, we discover a small plan- 
tation of roses covered with buds and open blossoms. 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 91 

Why this prosperity amid neglect, when ours, watched by 
day and night, are the victims of hungry pests? What 
have we done to call down insect Goths and Vandals'? 

There is a freemasonry among gardeners safe to take 
advantage of, if we keep alive the right spirit of humility 
about our own successes and are more willing to take 
advice than give it. An offer of a pitcher of cold butter- 
milk on a hot morning, a plate of fresh huckleberry cake, 
or a basket of black cherrie r -, are the proper keys to invite 
civility, and the most crabbed gardener stiffened in his 
own opinions about you and your affairs must look 
kindly upon a Greek bearing such gifts. 

However, a gentle neighborly curiosity impelled a 
visitor to approach the dusky cottage with a peace offer- 
ing, and to regard the owner of the sunbonnet with 
gracious deference. She was on her knees, with leather 
gloves, trowel, and clippers, giving service to General 
Jacqueminot, Marechal Niel, Clothilde Soupert, and 
Bon Silene, and a sweet sanguine rose nestled in her 
hair. She had no views on roses, but used her woman's 
wit to whisk her spiders with a broom, sprinkle an emul- 
sion from her own recipe of hellebore, soapsuds, and 
what-not, and there were two or three old umbrellas kept 
to hoist over precious buds when a thunderstorm was 
due ; and her reward was roses. 

If fate denies those under the clouds of city smoke 
the right to become "rosarians" they may have other 



92 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

compensations. Every one who has a garden expects to 
hear how the roses are doing — keeping alive that pleasant 
fiction that if we will we may have them — and so we 
may, if we shut our ambitions from the varieties that 
belong to Provence and lands where it is ever summer 
and always afternoon, without the rains of a dying year 
and a winter of discontent. 

Our sweet peas are like girl graduates, pretty, dainty, 
and youthful. They have come in rose time, and climbed 
high on their screen, and their little bonnets look far 
down the road. Cutting sweet peas before breakfast is a 
real sweetener of the atmosphere before planning to 
work, perchance to hunt stakes and tear strips of muslin 
to tie up the tall dahlias and gladioli. Dahlias take 
hours of coaxing, while the gladioli seem to consider life 
an easy affair; yet the dahlia fancier would not give one 
root for a dozen gladioli, and the devotee of gladioli 
would laugh to scorn a devotion to dahlias. 

As we are denied glittering successes in roses, it is 
within the power of a tactful gardener to transfer his 
loves. Perchance when our back is turned on red spiders 
and slugs to lavish affection on some hardier plant than 
the rose, the pests themselves will travel along and meet 
a Goliath lurking in unexplored vegetation. Or it may 
be, if we let them alone they will find rumpled rose 
leaves in their Capua, and a gourmand appetite will urge 
them to anarchy and to devour one another. 



THE ODORS OF ARABY 93 

A devotion to the rose must be fostered as one of the 
finer passions of life, in which feeble human power offers 
a gift of affection to nature's supreme flower, without 
rival in color, and with a breath blown by enchantment 
from the Elysian fields to this commonplace earth of 
ours. 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 

**T ET not the grass grow on the paths that lead to the 
JL-J house of your friend," warned the calendar for the 
day, inspiring the dreaming garden maker to take a subur- 
ban road to discover the triumphs of Phyllis and her flock 
of active children. It is thus that fate knocks at the door 
and points to unseen vistas in the land of the heart's 
desire, which in this instance was a garden not alone for 
to-day but for to-morrow. The home was modest and 
befitting the income of a city man, and, seen from afar, 
it was invested with a halo of glory of blooming shrubs. 
In common with many college-bred parents, these had 
their ideas concerning the bringing up of children, which, 
being in the spirit of the time, hinged on the vital impor- 
tance of play in the open air. Who with six lively young 
animals in the first stages of boyish independence could 
hope to keep flower beds in the pink of perfection in the 
confines of a seventy-five-foot lot*? 

A stern-hearted guardian and a bundle of switches 
might terrorize the thoughtless crew who, however de- 
voted to posies, must still have space to play ball and 
tumble about. Then as for fair Phyllis, no longer did 

94 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 95 

"fleet the time carelessly as in the golden world" of girl- 
hood — tiny boys and girls clamored for the hours, and 
gardening minutes were uncertain. 

And so it came about that the shrub plantation trans- 
formed the little villa the year around, making it seem 
the haunt of a sleeping beauty in the wood, protected 
from the public road by a hedge of Japanese barberry, 
ever beautiful from budding time until the birds had 
nipped the last berry of the scarlet fringe that hung over 
the snowdrifts. A warm spell in April was sure to hang 
out the signals of gold on the forsythia massed together 
in a corner, and they have scarcely faded before the 
peach and the redbud trees shed the blushes of the rose 
on the other side of the house, where the children are 
hunting for violets in the grass. 

After that, the long procession of lilacs, purple and 
white, between the neighbor's driveway and the lawn, 
begins to open clusters of bloom, and brings the walkers 
of a Sunday afternoon from far and near to sniff their 
sweetness at a distance and to look with longing eyes on 
the Japanese quince painting a bright spot of sea-shell 
red against the gray of stone foundations, or the rosy 
loveliness of the flowering almond that becomes visible 
on the other side of the porch as one goes on. In May 
the bush honeysuckle sheltering the kitchen door with 
jealous care is in bloom, and the snowballs loom up like 
ghosts in the twilight when you chance to pass that way. 



96 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

What a wonderland of delight it is to the children 
from the outer world, so full of mysterious hiding 
places, ever rich in surprises of birds' nests and blossoms ! 
It is a real fairyland, changing from day to day, and 
should you be one of the favored friends who may pull 
the latchstring of the gate under the arch of trumpet 
creeper, a day is all too short to visit the blossoming 
shrines and learn the latest tidings from the catbirds' 
nest that has made the regions about the flowering 
syringas forbidden ground. 

It may be that the sweetbrier will be in bud, or that 
a single spray will have been kept for you on the pungent 
flowering currant. Perhaps you will hear that mush- 
rooms have come up where the meadowsweet was 
planted, or that a real fairy ring was discovered in the 
clover in the calycanthus bower; for surely so strange a 
flower as this, smelling of pineapple, must bloom for 
gnomes or brownies. 

You may be taken to the nook planted with shrubs 
which you helped dig once upon a time in a ravine hard 
by, and your counsel asked about the red dogwood, the 
pussy willow, the buttonball, and hop tree, and you may 
discover that the shadbush is in bloom and one of the 
prettiest shrubs of all in the lacey robes of spring. 

The snowberry is not yet flowering, but already an 
ingenious young rascal has rigged a scarecrow to warn off 
the birds, that snowberries and moutain-ash fruit may 




A JAPANESE GARDEN AT WYNNEWOOD, PENNSYLVANIA 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 97 

hang for winter provisions. And here are the latest 
guests, a double-flowering crab and a staghorn sumac, 
and in the background the weigelas and altheas, the 
harvest home and the Rose of Sharon, which will be gay 
in midsummer and early autumn. 

While a garden is first of all a place for flowers, 
grounds are first of all a place for shrubs, which are but 
flowers of a larger growth. The shrub, be it calycanthus 
or flowering currant, is a grateful thing that will grow 
into the affections. Many shrubs chuckle in their secret 
hearts that they are always there, showing color or fruit 
or gallant shapes against snowdrifts when the perennials 
are nodding and the annuals have gone to their long rest. 

If the plot of ground is large enough, and the heart 
likewise, there is much satisfaction in making compan- 
ionship of flowers and shrubs, using the latter for a back- 
ground or a shelter, and cherishing one while you cherish 
the other. The shrub has its willful sins and pestering 
temptations, with as many parasitic enemies as the most 
devoted among us, seeking the upward way to grace and 
flowering virtue. 

If anywhere on earth, we believe in his garden, most 
of all, a man has a right to indulge his fancy. Set the 
compass by the polestar of beauty and delight, and what 
matter if others think you mad ! Go on and Dlant what 
you like. 

A shrubbery lot comes a step nearer paradise if a 



g8 the joy of gardens 

flower garden with hollyhocks, foxgloves, mignonette, 
and sweet-smelling and gay-looking blooms congregate 
where the sun shines. If joy is overabundant, then we 
can afford to hedge ourselves in with tall lilacs or mock 
orange, but one with the true beauty hunger would like 
a window to peep into his neighbor's orchard, and an 
opening where the neighbor could look in. Joy is a 
neighborly spirit, and a rambling company of rugosa 
roses bearing flowers for June and fruit for December 
for a pretending barrier, with outlooks here and there, 
would keep life's business in a summer mood. 

On the lawn where the grass had been clipped away 
from the iris bed to let the sun warm the earth about the 
plant roots, a morning-glory seed sown by the wind had 
taken root and sent up a graceful stem full six inches in 
length that reached out a sensitive terminal bud to grasp 
a spray of iris about unfurling its purple bloom. Hard- 
ness of heart must be a virtue of a weeding woman. No 
good, aspiring soul realizes the seeds of cruelty buried 
deep within it until, in the guise of a gardener, duty 
points to pulling roots, slaying grubs and slugs, scaring 
sparrows and predatory kittens, and shooing chickens and 
the investigating child. 

A stern sense of the survival of the fittest bars out the 
quality of mercy. Either admit sparrows, kittens, and 
youngsters, and make heyday with them while bidding 
farewell to neat garden beds, or maintain a firm front 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 99 

and debar them all. Weeds are such a little way from 
humankind. If you have fought crab grass, plantain, or 
sprawling vines, sooner or later an eerie feeling possesses 
you that they know more than they confess, and that they 
are scheming at night while you are asleep. You wonder 
in what phase of existence they learned their tricks. 

This wee morning-glory was bound to succeed, for it 
had been practicing throwing its lasso tendril by the light 
of the moon, as the perfect spiral bending toward the 
iris told too plainly. It seemed a sin to uproot it; but 
what about the waiting iris bloom, what of the artist iris 
lover to whom the offense of mixed plants was a greater 
sin than the ending of the life of the morning-glory vine*? 
With a look to right and to left to see that no one was 
watching,, the tender-hearted weeder lifted the earth 
about the morning-glory roots with a wide scoop of the 
trowel, and, all unconscious that it was being taken to 
other worlds, it was replanted beside the kitchen porch in 
another warm, sunny spot, and a string made ready for its 
climbing. 

Of all the plants that grow, vines are the most respon- 
sive and companionable. Their unceasing efforts "up, up 
to the light" help the soul in its battle for courage ; and, 
if one lacks amusement for the idle hour, it is certain to 
be found among the vines. Ten or a dozen are not too 
many for the garden that is to be a "sanctuary of sweet 
and placid pleasure." Each has its crochets, its fancies, 



ioo THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and its own sweet will, which to-day it will bend in gentle 
compliance to serve your own, and to-night go wandering. 

We love it all the more because it is a bit willful, and 
because it will not be led by the rules of bittersweet, of 
honeysuckle, or of any other climber, taking the chances 
of its own vagaries. Manlike, you may string your nets 
and offer support, wooing — "I love you, love me back" ; 
but the vine, responding for the hour, reaches out long 
sprays to tempt the winds the moment you look the other 
way. 

Fortunately vines keep on climbing whatever the 
weather, and it is a comfort to one in the toils of the day's 
work to know that his climbers are still aspiring. Nor 
need we go to India or Japan for beauty. In our own 
vacant lot is the wild grape, and many a forest oak, long 
dead, is draped with Virginia creeper, from which a start- 
ing plant may be taken without heaping guilt on your 
soul. The wild grape is a jewel among the vines; beauti- 
ful in grace and color, its leaves unsurpassed in shape, 
it blooms in early spring and in June sheds a delicious 
fragrance. In July its foliage is luxuriant, hiding the 
ripening grapes. 

Your formal garden neighbor may object to reckless 
vine planting; but why ask him at all, for the probability 
is that he does not plant anything*? The stone wall will 
last a century, though vine fingers are feeling their way 
into the mortar. If it is so poorly built that it cannot 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 101 

stand a Boston ivy, then the sooner the vine makes an 
end to it the better. 

. A vine-covered wall is the best recipe that I know for 
driving off the blues, and dull care cannot hold sway- 
while vines are growing. Early in the morning you dis- 
cover that the vines need pruning; at noon you must 
climb the Udder to turn curious tendrils aside from creep- 
ing where you have forbidden ; at three o'clock a sparrow 
colony has chosen a location; at five a tent caterpillar has 
made its web, and so your business goes on all night while 
swallows and bats are on the wing. 

The wistaria magnifica is a splendid grower to set at 
the post of a pergola or an arbor. It is an event in life 
to sit beneath its shade when June has opened its racemes 
of purple lilacs. The trumpet creeper is another of my 
favorites, not quite as aristocratic as the wistaria, but 
rugged, tropical, and glorious when it offers its swinging 
stems of flaming trumpets, and bees hum in and out, and 
every ant colony far and near sends its cohorts to steal the 
nectar from its cells. The Dutchman's pipe is another 
sturdy vine growing luxuriantly, and there is the new 
Jack-and-the-beanstalk, the Kudzu vine, a perennial that 
travels seventy feet in a summer. 

What of the honeysuckle 4 ? Who that has ever hung 
enchanted over a spray of creamy pink and white, sweeter 
than the perfume of any other flower, would forget it 4 ? 
It is the flower of the poet, created for bowers and arbors. 



102 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

The delicious fragrance of the white jasmine makes it a 
rival, the beauty of the Japanese clematis asks for its 
share of admiration, but none excels the honeysuckle — 
though if there is garden room I should have them all and 
rejoice in their companionship. 

The large flowering clematis draping a gray wall in its 
purple is a charming thing; and then there are the lesser 
ones of the same species of pink and violet and white, 
most useful when we need a mass of color to put us in 
singing humor. 

We need be wise in an age of the renaissance of the 
formal garden, lest our impulses for unschooled freedom, 
and plantations rich in suggestion of jocund beauty, 
of tender color and perfume, are bound by conven- 
tions. What more shall we ask of life than that it per- 
mit us to remain companionable and to become more 
companionable*? 

A screen at the kitchen door draped with common 
morning-glories — if you have not the Japanese variety — 
is a haven of beauty in the early morning and an 
encourager of sociable small talk. The makeshift of a 
coal house or tool shed will throw an artist into ecstasy if 
overrun with a foxgrape you have stolen from the woods, 
and the scarlet runner taking its way along the fence top, 
the gourd and balloon vines, the red cypress, are alive 
with quaint tricks, and the most social of all social climb- 
ers to take into the family. 



ET IN ARCADIA FUISTI 103 

Have you lost your faith in miracles? Then rise with 
the sun to-morrow, when garden and orchard and meadow 
are jeweled with dew. Stand before the humble morning- 
glory that you have despised, and while you look and 
would count the sparkle of crystal drops upon the emer- 
ald leaves, a host of flowers unfurl at some divine com- 
mand, chalices of pearl and blue and rose are lifted in 
adoration before the shrine of the rising sun, bringing 
another day to a thoughtless world waking under the 
azure skies and yet forgetful of the heavenly presence. 



WHEN BEES COURT THE CLOVER 

A GROUP of double pink hollyhocks, blushing on the 
outer petals, deep rose at the hearts, set on stately 
stalks amid velvety leaves of richest green, nodding above 
a thatched beehive, compose as pretty a picture as one can 
find in all the floral books painted by landscape architects. 

The association of bees and hollyhocks in this instance 
was one of those fortunate accidents brought about by a 
benign goddess of affairs who feared mischance would 
follow our reasoning. The giant snapdragon had been 
thought of to fill the corner behind the hive, the pentste- 
mons, the Canterbury bells, and foxgloves, but none at- 
tained the height of the hollyhock, nor did any own its 
air of remoteness and self-sufficiency. It seemed to have 
a sense of maintaining a decorative position. 

It alone of all the hardy plants seemed to put in no 
plea for neighborly attention, and, for all we knew, was, 
in its flowery ways, pluming itself on being equal to 
loneliness and the exigencies of solitude — gifts not 
granted the common lot. 

Lest the imp of discontent should creep in, as it may in 
exclusive society, it is well to have a note of life, and here 

104 



BEES COURT THE CLOVER 105 

were set the busy humming bees to make work and play 
at the feet of the queenly hollyhocks. 

.Many a time we have blessed that hour of decision, for 
it is one of the very few corners of the garden to which 
we dare take a guest in confidence that he will not lift a 
critical eyebrow and comment on a might-have-been. To 
be a truly social spirit in a wide circle of friends it is 
necessary to cultivate an amiability to accept the criticism 
of those who have not learned the A B C of tact. 

Only one remark lingers concerning the hollyhocks, 
and that was from an oversensitive person who said they 
reminded him of dai^maids, and ought to be relegated to 
kitchen gardens to give the artistic note to pumps and 
milk pans. Sheep in a painted landscape affected him in 
the same unpleasant manner — as they belonged to a sheep- 
fold and the market place, why drive them into our deco- 
rations^ This one commonplace out of mind, the 
hollyhocks present a fine tableau of dignified plants with 
noble blossoms attended by adoring servitors of honey- 
seeking bees. 

Once in a long time, and always in an out-of-the-way 
corner of the world, in Woods Hole, the eastern shore of 
Chesapeake Bay, or in Devon, England, lives a fanatical 
hollyhockian. He or she plants hollyhocks for variety, 
glories in numbers and queer sorts, knows them by name, 
raises them from seed or grafts, plants cuttings, divides 
roots, and does things that we should never dare to do. 



106 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Ten years ago such a person raised hollyhocks near 
Woods Hole — she may be there still — and travelers came 
from afar to lean on the fence and look at them. A few 
descendants of these thrifty plants ventured to the West, 
by way of seeds, in the corner of a pocket handkerchief. 
Of course they ought not to have grown, according to the 
views of strict morality, but every old-time gardener will 
tell you that stolen seeds do best — not that I would en- 
courage thievery, not for all the world; but there is such 
a saying, and hence the underground traffic in seeds in 
letters and vest pockets. 

You know as well as I that if the flowers of the world 
waited to be listed on bills and given for coin, few would 
be grown, and the human carrier who takes a seed to plant 
is helping survival along, which the grub and the slug are 
ever lying in wait to destroy. Back of every flower bed 
lies a page of history its owners do not inadvertently tell. 

Remembering the virtues of hollyhocks, it is strange 
that more hedges are not planted and the beautiful array 
of colors made familiar. The pinks and reds, frilly 
double whites and yellows, hold a place all alone, and the 
tall, well-proportioned plants make a distinguished deco- 
ration in grounds. So many other plants give bloom for 
the table and bouquets, and may be plucked, and have 
fragrance, that the home gardener can afford to give a 
space to a hedge or a corner of choice hollyhocks just 
for their ornament and value as a background. Of their 



BEES COURT THE CLOVER 107 

disadvantages nothing need be said, as they are easily 
kept free of pests and their merits gain a firm hold on 
the heart. Having the virtues of use and beauty, they 
are regarded highly. 

While one beehive made a picture with the group of 
pink hollyhocks, another was hidden in a clump of rich 
yellow that towered above the French marigolds, coreop- 
sis, and calendulas, all yellows. It was a quaint arrange- 
ment, and artistic enough to call a painter with his 
three-legged stool and easel to sketch the tangle. The 
dairymaid character is not altogether a misplaced idea 
with sunflowers or hollyhocks, for a brief glance will 
show how difficult it is to be content with a refined flower 
of gentle lineage at their feet, while, when alone, the 
robust quality of stem and foliage contribute to a barbaric 
sort of beauty. 

Have you ever planned a fete rich in tricks and sur- 
prises, and then awakened on the day with a beating heart 
lest the spectacle you had pictured had been shifted by a 
hand of destiny touching the kaleidoscope, and something 
else meet your view*? 

This should be the feeling of one who has given the 
affection to a garden of annuals and looks forward to 
early July, for July is the test of planting for color and 
midsummer beauty. Just now we lucky ones are glad if 
the hollyhocks of pink and healthy color are making 
bright their clumps, if the sapphire-blue larkspurs are 



108 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

massing their reflections of the sky above snowy borders 
of candytuft and banks of recklessly blooming feverfew. 

Earth has two orders of gardeners: the domestic kind 
who owns a "flower bed" into which he cannot crowd too 
many sweet, familiar flowers, and the trained gardener 
who plans on paper and judges all his success from effects 
seen from the street. The first weaves posies into his 
nature as he weaves the flowers of art and poetry, to en- 
rich Lis personality and to open his vision to human 
sympathy; and the second, well-meaning enough, esti- 
mates from the critic's point of view. 

It would be a privilege to have a tender side for the 
lovely things behind the hedge, and to be able to satisfy 
the rules of art in color and arrangement; but if I can 
have only one gardener as a friend, give me the posy 
lover. 

Over the hills and far away in the true farming country 
the white clover has thrown its veil of gossamer across 
the face of the landscape. The fresh green of the herbage 
takes on a silver sheen spreading from the inclosed pas- 
ture t® the very edges of the dusty roadside and along the 
garden path; and had you seen it at sunrise you would 
have caught a glimpse of a thousand jeweled dewdrops 
spangling its folds ere the sunbeams caught them aloft 
into the azure atmosphere. 

Look to-morrow morning, and impassioned July will 
have torn it away and the meadows will be blushing rosy 



BEES COURT THE CLOVER 109 

red. White clover's reign has given place to a new order 
of summer time, and all nature is paying obeisance to 
overblown blossoms of pale crimson. 

The delicate fragrance of flower petals that lingered 
from the hours of June and culminated in the breath of 
white clover has vanished in the presence of the tropical 
odors of July in its prime. White-clover perfume is as 
elusive as that arising from swinging censers above the 
Virgin's shrine in Old World chapels, but red-clover fra- 
grance has all the alluring qualities of the pungent scents 
of sandalwood and Eastern spices. 

Well should nature lovers cry "All hail !" in the hour 
of clover bloom, for these are the true aristocrats of the 
pastures, and have climbed high in the scale of evolution. 
The genuine thoroughbred, conscious that he is fittest to 
survive, hates classification and analysis of his family in- 
heritance. It is enough that he has selected admirable 
qualities of each generation, as he has held his own in the 
struggle for existence, and that he has been able to trans- 
mit the best to his progeny. Why talk about it at all, say 
they; why not fix all your powers to win over circum- 
stance, and "make stepping-stones of our dead selves to 
higher things" ? 

This is what the clover has done. The wee white 
clover, with its thousands of creeping roots feeling their 
way in the darkness and lifting the heavy soil to let sun- 
light and air into the depths, scatters its gifts of nitrogen 



no THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and gives to the earth as much as it takes. Like the soul 
of a saint, it makes better the places that shelter it. And 
counting its production of leafage and blossom, its stores 
of honey and meed of beauty, aside from forage value, the 
clover should be considered among the most welcome 
guests, as it really is, of the farming lands. 

It is well worth while to adopt the clovers among our 
acquaintances. Pluck one little pea-shaped floret from 
the clover head and note its close resemblance to the white 
flowers that graced the acacia in June. Then hold it close 
to the splendid purple wistaria hanging from the trellis, 
and recall the locust bloom of springtime, the gorse and 
golden broom that decorate the Scotch highlands, the 
little blue vetch and purple nonesuch of the roadside and 
pastures, and, finally, turn to the sweet pea of the flower 
borders and the blossoms of the vegetable garden ; and lo ! 
they are all of one kindred. The modest white clover, 
the loyal shamrock, and its prodigal sister the red 
clover, are leaders in the evolution of this honored family 
of flower folk. 

All the virtues that a kindly providence bestows upon 
the bloom of plants have been awarded the clover. They 
have changed more to suit their particular habits than any 
other species of their relatives. Beauty and perfume are 
theirs, and they are distinctively bee flowers. Each head 
of clover is composed of thirty or forty tiny white or 
purplish pea flowers, every one set in a protecting hairy 



BEES COURT THE CLOVER in 

calyx of its own. The prickly hedge of thorns did not 
guard the sleeping beauty more securely from marauders 
until the right prince should come than do these bristling 
hairs protect the honey store from robber ants, giving only 
before the ardor of the honeybee. 

The advance of the clover floret has modified its orig- 
inal shape, and it no longer resembles the common pea 
blossom, which has four distinct and separate petals. In 
the clover floret these will be seen to have grown together 
at the base, making a single tube most convenient for 
honey hunters. Yet look farther. Not only is the bee 
served, but nature has seen to it that the clover should 
benefit by the change. The stamens of the floret have 
coalesced with the petal tube, and the entering bee pays 
toll for his honey by scattering the pollen and fertilizing 
the blossom, making it a certain seed bearer. 

Every one with a taste for sweets knows the flavor of 
clover honey. It inherits the deliciousness of the nectar 
of the gods gleaned from the thyrny banks of the vale of 
Hymettus and the slopes of Parnassus; and who dares 
deny that the clover meadows were there, and but escaped 
the eyes of the poet though he inhaled their fragrance? 
For no thymy banks can vie with a clover field in mid- 
summer. 

The red clover claims the splendid humblebee for its 
very own. His proboscis was designed to penetrate its 
long trumpet and carry off the honey collected in the 



112 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

heart of the floret. The relationship of bees and clover is 
most intimate; so deep, in fact, that red clover 
would suffer for the assistance of the big burly black-and- 
gold humblebee, and all clover decline in the scale, if 
robbed of insect friends. 

The humor of the scientist, who gravely reasoned that 
the crop of a field was dependent upon the spinsters of a 
neighborhood, has an argument so acceptable that we are 
willing to believe it. Its logic has wit in it. The play of 
field mice in the stubble is pretty sport, and when they 
go ahunting who would blame them for stalking the hum- 
blebees as garnet But again it happens as in life, the 
victor must be vanquished, and the roving tabby cat 
pampered by old maids is the Nemesis. 

My neighbor of single blessedness has often bewailed 
the superfluous woman. Let this thought comfort her, 
that she has not been forgotten in the machinery of the 
universe. While she takes her walks abroad at evening, 
with Madame Tortoiseshell at her side, they both are 
actors in the great scheme involving the clover history, 
and their stage of usefulness is the clover meadow in 
blossom time, and even now while the sun drops low be- 
hind the distant hills and the vesper bells are ringing. 




A PERGOLA IN A LOS ANGELES GARDEN 



IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 

WHO counts the cost of a thunderstorm in July when 
that in May is worth a load of hay, and one in 
June wins a silver spoon ? Every raindrop refreshing the 
thirsty flower is far more welcome than a diamond would 
be, sparkling in its purity, to play the part of a perpetual 
dewdrop; and no theatrical spectacle can equal the gran- 
deur of rain-laden clouds heaped mountain high with 
frosty, inaccessible summits. 

The cloud panorama changes continually, never re- 
peating its scenes, ever wonderful ; and when it reaches a 
culmination of angry portent, heavy with gathered mois- 
ture, fired with stored electricity, it outdoes any "thriller" 
presented by an ingenious showman. 

Cloud watching is a pastime without disappointment. 
It is so far beyond human meddling that I feel as if I were 
looking into other worlds, and am made rich in expe- 
riences of fear, of awe and reverence, and delight that 
puny man dares enter into an appreciation of visible ex- 
citement in nature in which all his wisdom has no part. 

As the thunderclouds roll on the horizon, and the dark- 
ness deepens, and the storm gathers, we recall that it was 

ii3 



ii4 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

courage of an uncommon order that inspired Benjamin 
Franklin to fly his kite and to flout the warning given 
Prometheus when he aspired to steal the fire from heaven. 
The age has produced only one Franklin, one daring soul 
to reach out to the clouds and open another wonder to the 
universe. 

Before the approaching storm the nerves are keyed to 
a keen state of excitement. The elements let loose 
tangled skeins of lightning, ominous flashlights glare and 
vanish, and loud peals of thunder seem to rend the clouds 
and to shake the solid earth on which we stand, playing 
havoc with nature and man's petty schemes. 

After it is over the rain has fallen and the black vapors 
have gone with the wind, the storm muttering sullenly in 
the distance. Then the sun shines out sweetly, as if there 
had been no burst of temper, the rain-washed skies are a 
heavenly blue, and the flowers lift their tattered petals to 
smile as before. The rain has purified the atmosphere, 
the ground is saturated, and the garden begins to take a 
new start. 

The July sunshine, ripening the harvest fields and 
shedding a fervid heat to hasten the growing corn and to 
dry the hay, is a mischief-maker among our annuals. If 
it has its way seeds would be maturing and blossom time 
a thing of the past. While out in the country the farmer 
is thumbing his almanac, the city gardener turns to the 
forecasts of the weather bureau as he picks up his 



IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 115 

morning paper. All signs seem to fail in dry weather ; the 
poplars show the white of their leaves and prove false 
prophets, the birds fly low, and the spiders spin, all to no 
account. 

The clouds rising in the southwest we were sure held 
the rains and, filling us with hope, crept aside to pour 
their waters on more favored pastures. Long experience 
has taught that a shower will do more for our blossoming 
beds than all the nights of a week devoted to work with 
the hose. Nature knows the right temperature, and just 
how to wash foliage and send streams to the roots. 

More gardens have been ruined by careless sprinklers 
than by a dry spell, and sometimes weed pulling, stirring 
the sun-baked beds with a hoe, and faithful clipping of 
seed pods and dry flowers, will keep blossoms unfolding 
in a healthier condition than if sprinkled. The calendu- 
las, marigolds, coreopsis, calliopsis, and petunias should 
begin to look their best, and if an annual does not show 
ambition, now is the time to pull it up. 

The thunderstorm of the early morning, clearing about 
six o'clock, is an invitation to be out. It delays the open- 
ing of the morning-glories, which the lazy sleeper rarely 
sees. The new Japanese morning-glory is a beautiful 
addition to the fair company of crystal cups, pink-tinted 
shells, velvet purples, and royal crimsons that the morn- 
ing-glory lover has ever looked for. The pillars on the 
porch and the long strings made taut for their pleasure are 



n6 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

twined by ambitious climbers going as high as the law 
allows. 

Out from the heart-shaped leaves push the tightly 
twisted rolls of buds, wrapped carefully for the eventful 
instant when, without warning, they gracefully unfurl, 
turning their perfect flowers to the morning sun. The 
opening of morning-glories creates a transformation scene, 
the green expanse being flower-decked while you catch 
your breath with wonder. 

The evening primrose at sundown is as prompt as a 
clock. There is a trio of the wild plants just over the 
fence standing silent and without interest. If you know 
the secret you may imagine that the heart of the flower 
is throbbing in haste, as it bares its beauty without warn- 
ing, and scarcely has it spread the golden petals when a 
thousand moths come posthaste to fan it with their white 
wings and to taste of its nectar. 

July has its compensations. The clematis Jackmanii 
and the traveler's joy celebrate their own time. The pur- 
ple clematis Jackmanii demands that it should have a 
corner all its own, but how graceful it is as it waves its 
star flowers over the trellis of green! The traveler's joy, 
another clematis, seems to gain in grace as the days grow 
colder, and heaps hundreds of snowy flowers upon its 
stems, a very prodigal of its own wealth. 

As the days pass, the trumpet creeper wins its way into 
real garden favor; but if you would see it at its very best 



IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 117 

go to some country town where flowers are loved, and 
look for trumpet creepers on every woodshed roof. Neg- 
lected and forgotten shacks are bowers of green, and 
above them wave the luxuriant bunches of blossoms of 
the trumpet vine. 

The cobsea and Dutchman's pipe, as well as the scarlet 
runner, put out flowers in July, and then it is well to 
take note of those one would like to call his own, a vine 
to wreathe an unsightly window to make it a joy to the 
eyes, an awkward corner that would gain by a clematis 
trellis, or a sunny side to a porch which might become in- 
viting if screened by a thrifty vine. 

In the calendar of the wild-flower lover, April is the 
month of snowdrops and the frail Easter flowers, May 
puts on a touch of color in winking Marybuds, cowslips, 
and apple bloom, and June roses have stirred many a poet 
to song, while the air is heavy with grape blossoms and 
syringas and drying rose leaves. 

After the flowers of early spring have gone their ways 
the July hedgerows adorn themselves in traveler's joy 
and broideries of color most enchanting. The meadows 
have put off their paler green to don tints rich in sugges- 
tions of bronze and reds from the ripened flowers of the 
grass. Here and there in the lush places, where a spring 
bubbles up or a bit of bog remains from days of long ago, 
a patch of Turk's-cap lilies flaunt their scarlet, or a royal 
iris holds up its banners. 



n8 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Flower gathering in July is replete with satisfaction. 
The days are warm, and lingering in the fields wraps the 
senses in a delicious sense of well-being. The sunshine 
has not reached the fervid heat of August, nor is there 
the chill and the mist that reminded one that ever- 
blithesome May had an edge to her temper. July crowns 
the summer in flowers that do not wither easily, and per- 
mits us to feel the full glory of the ripening year. It is 
then we like to go back to the old home and to revisit the 
haunts of childhood. 

July spreads its vines and full-blown foliage over all, 
and dresses the fields in a prosperous harvest. On every 
side sound the notes of cicadas and crickets, and the nest- 
ing birds have not yet ceased their singing. 

The returning wanderer, who had left the farm when 
a child, remembered how the bouncing Bets straggled 
along the road to the very gateway. Perhaps they would 
meet him now. Sure enough, when he turns the corner at 
the crossroads a bouncing Bet looks up shyly from the 
roadside, just as her cousins peep from every byway at 
this season. But in the course of time the bouncing Bets 
have increased in family, and behold, they have stolen 
through the gate, and a careless mower has permitted 
them to form a colony in a miniature hedge all along the 
inner fence. 

Out on the roadside the mullein has opened its velvety 
leaves in a perfect rosette and is training its tall stems, 



IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 119 

which rise with the aspiring lines of the great candles be- 
fore an altar. Here and there and everywhere creeps the 
camomile, starred with its yellow-centered daisies. 
Among it the smartwood has taken root and, feeling the 
impulse of summer, has hung out a rose-tipped and grace- 
ful plume of prince's-feather. Near the horseblock live 
the same little groups of butter and eggs, and the toadflax 
that keeps its snapdragon flowerets as dainty and velvet- 
lipped as if sheltered in the garden. 

Along this same roadway are islets of white clover, 
sending out runners and tracing pretty patterns over what 
else were barren ground. Just across yonder fence acres 
of red clover are in bloom, with an army of humblebees 
foraging for sweets amid the blossoms. The fragrance 
comes with every waft of the breeze. Here it was that 
we hunted for field mice, and here the great owl hovered 
at night and "came down like a wolf on the fold." 

The "Marsh," as it is called, was the favored abiding 
place of many flowers in June. Now in the distance the 
scarlet of lilies can be seen. The white patch, with yel- 
low at the edges, is the yarrow bed, and where the hill- 
side rises to a drier stratum the pink and white boneset is 
in view. In the moister places the asclepias and butterfly 
weeds flourish to their heart's content. There are more 
of them to-day than twenty 3^ears ago, when a child 
wandered among them. 

The yellow sneezeweed grew on the dry upland — a 



120 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

mass of sunny yellow painted against a clump of dark 
witch-hazel hints that it may be there to-day. In a cer- 
tain opening in the grove the evening primroses kept com- 
pany all by themselves. No blossom had a clearer yellow 
or a daintier structure. In the fence corners the more ple- 
beian assemble among the tall grass — the coarse cone flow- 
ers, some gaillardias, and spikes of warm blue vervain and 
Indian clover and wild parsnip. 

From this fence corner one can look down the creek, 
where grew the cowslips of 3 r oung days. A warm March 
afternoon, when the first blush of green was stealing 
across the meadow, the discovery of the cowslip was re- 
corded. A shallow black pool covered the bog, and in the 
midst of the blackness were leaves of tender green and 
golden-cupped flowers which seemed to have stolen their 
sheen from the gold of the springtide. The long stems 
twined in wreaths and cowslip balls — for they were cow- 
slips according to the old botany book. 

It was a never-to-be-forgotten event — the golden hour 
of cowslip acquaintance. It was fairy gold, however, for 
it vanished when the child with the old botany book 
found that, according to another flower-namer, this "cow- 
slip" was a marsh marigold, and the -primula veris, the 
"primrose" of her affections, was in reality the cowslip of 
correct classification. A stubborn affection retained the 
primrose on the river's brim a primrose ever, and the 
cowslip the yellow of marsh marigold. The old botany 



IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 121 

book, faithless in its mission, was thrown into the fire, for 
it had misnamed and had led astray ideals. As life went 
on the cowslip illusion remained. No flower in all floral 
history has a more contradictory record. 

Another May, and a cowslip hunt led the way in tri- 
umph to a colony of dodecatheons, shooting stars, the 
"cowslip" of many botanists, a flower pale and rosy, with 
a beaked tip, and called by the children "bird-bills." 

And when another season came, and the same cowslip 
lover went hunting the fairy flower of youth, a learned 
botanist led the way through dark woods and wet places, 
through bracken and moss, where an opening let the sun- 
shine in, and there, bluer than the sky, drooped the bells 
of mertensia virginica. 

"Behold the cowslip," he cried, "and I am the only 
man in these parts that knows the true cowslip !" 

The flower lover was silent. Let the Persians call their 
cyclamens violets or cowslips, a rose by any other name; 
time had taught her that flower-naming was as much an 
invention as the christening of stars, and that the yellow 
cowslip dared hold its sway unshaken. For had not a 
well-thumbed old botany book named it, and the great 
authorities hinted that it was "sometimes so called'"? 



A CARNIVAL OF GOLD 

IF ever the face of nature smiles it does so in harvest 
time. The scant acres of suburban prairie don a gypsy 
garb of ripened grains, and lie peaceful and contented in 
the sunshine of the long afternoons. It is too soon for 
scattered burs and scratching thistles, and one may stretch 
full length in the grass, nestle the head on a fragrant tuft, 
and become part of the sweet idleness of the day. 

Life is so short that we may count it among the sins of 
omission if the hours go by and we fail to make use of the 
best that summer gives, staying within city walls when 
nature calls at the end of a suburban car line. Of course 
there is the effort of making a rush at the noon hour of 
Saturday, but shortly the thick of the city is left behind, 
and we may be in the heart of the woods. 

The country friend, owning a farm, little realizes the 
gifts he bestows upon the city prisoner in a week-end holi- 
da}'. The getting away from the pressure of noise, of 
thick atmosphere, of the bustling crowds, puts new spirit 
into the soul, freshens the point of view, adds to the stock 
of experience, and stores the memory with a thousand 
things seen and heard, as nothing else can do. 

122 



A CARNIVAL OF GOLD 123 

Out on the country road and in the open fields man is 
another being. He enters the world of the trees, the feed- 
ing cattle, the wayside weeds, and the crows flying over- 
head. He is one of them. 

When the whippoorwill calls at night it has its message 
for him. All the paraphernalia so necessary to his exist- 
ence in the city is useless here. He needs but ask for a 
roof to shelter from the heat and the wet, enough to eat 
— it matters not what — and the liberty to work or rest. 
The tyranny of fashion, clothes, fine furniture, hamper- 
ing customs, are as naught. He forgets all about them 
and turns back to the play with nature that went on in 
the Garden of Eden before the breaking of laws brought 
the penalty of hard labor. 

Going aberrying is a delight of July. The waste acres, 
with hazel brush and scattered briers above a turf of good 
pasture grass, are as clean as any park. The long switches 
of the raspberry and blackberry brambles hand out their 
fruits to any one who will take them. The barricading 
thorns were intended to ward off man and beast, but the 
favored guests of the berry patches — the birds gathering 
in flocks and nesting in the clumps of trees and bush — 
are welcomed to the feast. The berry patch is the haunt 
of haunts to the bird lover, for here he may see the 
winged songsters on a frolic, and hear them sing the most 
joyous songs of living. 
'> A host of queer relations have assembled in the berry 



124 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

patch. The wild cherry hangs its shining fruit overhead. 
In a shady place about the roots creeps the wild straw- 
berry; a rod away is a plum hung with ripened fruit, 
and here and there and everywhere the brambles of the 
wild rose embrace those of the raspberry, the blackberry, 
and the gooseberry. The perfume of sweetbrier fills the 
air. 

The rose tribe is not one to forget its poor relations. 
Indeed, it is a hard struggle to find the poor relations, if 
any at all exist. The rose family seems to have been 
endowed with the peculiar virtue of looking out for itself 
and its progeny, and borrowing aid from all creation, 
while still retaining the affection of all. What rarer 
virtue could any climber in the scale of life pray for*? 

The lowliest kinsmen of the tribe, the cinquefoil and 
yellow-blossomed weeds, with hard, roselike, seeded fruit, 
are established in little colonies on the turf. Next higher 
in the scale above these is the strawberry, its rose-petaled 
blossoms proclaiming its place on the family tree. But 
how marvelously has it looked after the future, dressing 
its dainty seeds upon a luscious pulp to tempt the appetite 
of the most jaded robin or surfeited catbird! 

In the clover field, on the hilltop, the bees are busy 
transferring the pollen while collecting their bags of 
honey. And down in the berry patch the birds do their 
share of work, in planting seeds under the wage of a 
square meal. All is harmony in this exchange of favors. 




BAR HARBOR, MAINE 



A CARNIVAL OF GOLD 125 

Next higher in the scheme are the black and red rasp- 
berries, in which nature has tried still another plan of 
setting every seed in its own delicious cup of juice. Those 
of the strawberries are gathered over the surface of one 
pulpy shape. By their peculiar arrangement the black 
and red raspberries are enabled to get along with fewer 
seeds, protecting them with the thorns from all but the 
birds and daring human hands, making a brave headway 
in the struggle for existence. 

The haws, white thorns, and dog roses bear a fruit 
which is a modified berry with fleshy envelope to invite 
biids to distribution. If the imagination can still hold 
fast to the analogy, slight though the thread may seem, 
it can travel to the plum tree, the cherry, and the wild 
apple in the grove, on to the queen of the royal line of the 
rose family — the true rose of the garden. 

The wild cherry and the plum mark the greatest econ- 
omy of seed. Returning to the little red strawberry 
nestling among its leaves, one may count half a hundred 
seeds, perhaps more, on its fleshy pulp; the raspberry at 
its best may have twoscore, and the apple six to ten, and 
the haw but two, and plum and cherry but one. 

"It is a wonder that pygmy man wonders," meditates 
the philosopher. And in a wild flight of the imagination 
we venture a query if in this vast mysterious scheme 
nature herself is learning by experiment, and playing with 
the breeding of fruits to discover where energy may be 



126 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

conserved and the species saved. The berry patch is a 
fertile field for thought. Its variety is so infinite that the 
hungry materialist seeking his dinner may be satisfied, the 
scientific inquirer find meat to his liking, the poet beauty 
for his verse, the painter pictures for the eyes, and the 
tired man all things for a holiday. 

Berry picking is hard work under the guise of play. 
No one ever complains of its weariness. And well it 
would be for us if the day's labor at all times could be 
turned to play by overlooking the stubble that blocks the 
way and the brambles that scratch the hands of the hardy 
adventurer in search of success. 

As the summer mellows it seems as if earth has stolen 
gold from the sun and decked herself like a queen to idle 
languidly in the long, bright days. The grainfields in 
the wide country farms reflect a yellowed light appearing 
to the half-closed eyes like sheets of burnished gold 
framed in the green of luxuriant lanes, fringed with a 
tracery of wild sunflowers, burnished and polished like 
disks of precious metal. 

Nor does the trickery of decoration stop here. The 
same elf weaving the world-design has waved its wand 
above our flower borders, and as we draw aside the cur- 
tains to catch the fresh breeze of early morning and to 
gain a fuller hearing of the wren singing to her nestlings 
from her downy home under the eaves, the dew-gemmed 
blossoms of sunny flowers weave a pattern of gold lace 



A CARNIVAL OF GOLD 127 

the length and breadth of the little plantation. They 
seem to have decided in some mute way to come all at 
once and to make a festival of celestial yellows to echo 
what wild life was doing along the highways. The color 
notes shade from the palest canary hue, matching the 
breast of a little finch that comes to sing in the locust 
bower, and deepen and deepen to the bronze gold of the 
lilies and the flames of the tritoma. 

None of these was planted with a view to garden color. 
Indeed, the garden color faddist works in the spirit of an 
artistic upstart who coldly sorts his seeds and plans as a 
modiste does over a set of trimmings, or as a rug weaver 
deliberates concerning a finished design to please the 
fashion of the hour. Garden enthusiasts are born, and 
garden architects are made. The first plant seeds in a 
passion to bring to light treasured friends among flow- 
ers, and the latter forget the individual in the pattern 
that may fall upon the eye during blooming time. 

It is a happy chance when nature comes to the rescue, 
as she does to the most careless planters. If the enthu- 
siast has been generous in his choice, and far-seeing to 
select flowers for the procession of the months, he can 
depend on nature to keep garden color changing as the 
prism of the rainbow. It will spread in beauty the rose 
hues of June, shifting the kaleidoscope through the yel- 
lows of midsummer, the flames of late August, and 
mingling purple and crimson and gold when September 



128 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

arranged the closing scene. In the weeks that have gone 
the little drama has played through several acts, grant- 
ing surprises, undreamed of at night, which burst upon 
the eyes with the dew of early day. 

As golden-skirted dancers awaiting a signal appear in 
groups, bowing sweetly at the word, the long-stemmed, 
star-eyed blossoms sway in midsummer zephyrs and dis- 
play their graces. All have an ancestry honored in old 
gardens, and inherit a character turning its back on dis- 
appointments. Who has ever put in the seed of calliop- 
sis, well-beloved black-eyed Susan, and failed to find her 
keeping the tryst in the harvest time? The gold of wiz- 
ards and necromancers was used to fashion her leaves, and 
the richest bronze in all flowerdom adorns the center of 
her disk. The coreopsis, "Golden Glory," is a sister plant 
ever to be relied upon, and from heart to the tip of its 
petals the most radiant sunshine. 

Every year, as soon as the reapers enter the oats in the 
yellow fields, calliopsis and coreopsis have grown to luxu- 
riant bushy heights, each tip bearing its flowers like a 
Christmas tree with gilt stars. On the ground below, the 
California poppies, eschscholtzia — the "Golden West" — 
weave a tapestry of lovely color, a strain of June sun- 
shine at break of day, stimulating to the senses and giving 
silent promises of hope. Clouds of sorrow are banished 
in the presence of these light-hearted notes of color which 
have a psychic influence hard to understand, but so 



A CARNIVAL OF GOLD 129 

joyous that none can turn back their message of faith to 
the soul. 

The yellow sprite repeats its scheme beyond a misty 
cloud of gypsophila, in a lowlier mass of calendulas 
stocky and sturdy, varying the yellows from pale lemon 
to copper; and as in music the melody will flow on and 
on to culminate in a splendid harmony, so the golden 
thread enters a web amid a clump of French marigolds 
spreading their living hues above emerald foliage, a 
green of deep-sea depths brightening the prisoned sun- 
shine in the frilled flowers. 

For the sake of contrast the white Shasta daisies per- 
mit a snowy interval, and then the yellow ribbon drops 
to the ground and climbs the fence in a wilderness of 
nasturtiums. It repeats every yellow note known in the 
scale of color, and plays upon them with variations. 
When twilight falls they exhale the finest perfume, which 
is wanting among the other yellow blossoms of this sea- 
son, though the marigolds have a bitter, pungent odor not 
at all unpleasant if you accept it alone and out of doors. 
The golden-leafed feverfew has crept from its bed to act 
as a restraining friend to the nasturtiums, and a little 
aloof on the other side of its rich growth rise the pride of 
present days, the giant snapdragons, velvety and golden- 
lipped, paler than the nasturtiums in yellows, but radiant 
as the purest lemon tints among flowers. 

Here and there lesser plants join the carnival of gold. 



130 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

It seems as if they knew the day and the hour, for of all 
the proud dahlias the yellow and white alone are out. 
The sole gladiolus in blossom is yellow throated, the 
canna bed holds a yellow signal from amid the great 
mound of calladiums, where the yellow day lilies shake 
their bells at the base to warn the brilliant portulacas 
creeping at their feet that they are lowly things and chil- 
dren of a night. The gaillardias sport the darkest of 
velvet browns shaded from orange, and next is a golden 
privet bush, and, in the greenery of plants long since 
stopped blooming, rise the tritomas, "red-hot pokers," a 
bit ahead of their season and turning the flame color to 
newer tints of rose reflections. 

Towering above all are the first sunflowers, rooted out- 
side the garden pale, and far down the road you may 
follow the cheerful call of tansy, goldenrod, evening prim- 
rose, helianthus, rudbeckias, jewel weed, the dainty butter 
and eggs tripping in meadow and on hilltop, where the 
mullein torches stand to catch the last gleams of the set- 
ting sun in nature's midsummer festival of yellows. 



THE FRIENDSHIP OF FLOWERS 

"/^EASE from your labors," cried the master of the 
V_^ garden from his seat near the radiant phlox to the 
worker with the watering can going to and fro after dusk 
among the thirsty flowers. "Your garden has been 
bought with a price of hard labor. Consider the lilies 
of the field; who waters them 1 ? Who hunts the red 
spider on the wild rose*? Who traps the slug or nets the 
butterfly on the prairies?" But the mistress of the gar- 
den heeded not and went her way, while the listening 
toad under the petunias, playing his tongue in a cloud 
of gnats, blinked his bright eyes and thought nothing. 
What was restless man to him, guardian of the domain? 
The mignonette rustled its crisp leaves in the shower 
of cool water, the heliotrope drank greedily with its roots 
and prided itself on the showing it had made under the 
hot afternoon sun, and every garden thing was grateful 
for the treat of a miniature shower on the dusty soil be- 
fore the dews began to wash their leaves. 

In village wanderings we may discover a garden in 
which flowers fight for existence as weeds in a wilderness. 
It is then that we talk of them growing according to their 

131 



132 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

own sweet will, when reason tells us that if certain sturdy 
plants do bloom, the chance which has made them fair to 
look upon and caused them to flourish, without many 
scars in the battle, is "direction which we cannot see," an 
invisible fortunate circumstance. 

In a forgotten village in an Eastern mountain valley 
was an old garden filled with what some call permanent 
plants; that is, enduring perennials, self-seeding annuals, 
and members of the lily tribe, reproducing their bulbs. 
The broad borders of white day lilies — funkia subcordata 
— edged a brick-paved walk with shining rosettes of 
green, above which swung the fragrant trumpets in their 
season. Behind the iron fretwork fence was a hedge of 
the white queens of the meadow from July until frost, 
crowned with snowy pyramids of bloom; and along the 
walls in spring the columbine waved trumpets before the 
budding leaves of hardy late chrysanthemums. 

The neighbors always stopped to look over the white 
phlox into the wilderness at the clumps of gillyflowers 
and pinks getting along in harmony where hollyhocks blos- 
somed in increasing numbers every year, and the Johnny- 
jump-ups traveled in endless procession in and out among 
them all. 

Every one knew the story of the broken-hearted recluse 
who lived behind the closed shutters, and every one 
lamented that for ten years no man, not even the useful 
village slave-of-all-work, had ever passed the padlocked 




A GARDEN AT WINNETKA, ILLINOIS 



FRIENDSHIP OF FLOWERS 133 

gate to spade and hoe in an inclosure always in bloom. 
"They never touch a thing," said a gossip. "They let 
them grow wild, and I 'd give a basket of eggs for a slip 
of that climbing rose." 

The city person marveled at a garden that in ten — nay, 
in twenty years — had changed so little without a restrain- 
ing or encouraging hand. No place in all the world could 
rival the ribbon of rose woven by the May pinks, no 
modest garden could boast of gayer color in poppies in 
June, or cleaner day lilies when all the rest of the world 
was battling with slugs. 

"It grows of itself. Those flowers sow their own seed 
and spread their own roots," said the village gossip 
decidedly. "I know that nobody touches them or even 
comes out to smell them. Everybody goes in the back 
way, and they receive no company." 

For all the fiction of city breeding, the city person takes 
greatest pleasure in early rising in the country and stroll- 
ing off to the fresh meadows before the world is awake. 
One morning, going abroad with rod and line as the sun 
was gilding the misty mountain tops and the village still 
lay asleep, the way led past the old garden, and then the 
secret was out why the growing prospered. 

Two ancient women in black with garden gloves were 
busy with might and main, clipping, trimming, digging, 
and watering, and at the sound of an echoing footstep on 
the brick pavement they silently flitted indoors behind the 



134 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

useless knocker of glittering brass, and the garden was 
alone to grow as it pleased. When it seemed the in- 
truder had passed on at this unheard-of hour, they were 
out at work again, looking suspiciously up and down to 
spy who had disturbed their labors. 

Some imagine that the perennial phlox, queens of the 
meadow, will grow if left alone. How about your boys 
and girls, and your Irish-setter pup, your blooded colt, or 
angora kitten*? The giant perennial phlox need care for 
their kind too. They require a restraining hand to bring 
out their points of good breeding and to look their pret- 
tiest before company. The discipline of pinching back 
brings out their best appearance. 

One thing you may be sure of; that is, gratitude, a 
virtue not always conspicuous in a higher scale of crea- 
tion. The nightly prowl with the watering can and 
shears gets its thanks. It is a pretty fancy to believe in 
responsiveness, to have faith that the flowers know when 
you prune away the dry leaves, till the earth about the 
roots to discourage grubbers, and shake the flower heads 
to dislodge a possible caterpiller which may be nest- 
making there. 

All these things the queens of the meadow and other 
blossoming members of your colony need, and the true 
gardener finds a joy in the work which never comes to the 
idle person sitting on the porch and watching the labor. 
He may call all his own, and take toll of flowers for his 



FRIENDSHIP OF FLOWERS 135 

buttonhole, but the weeding, watering gardener knows 
secret pleasures not to be his. 

Let us sing praises of queens of the meadow, the peren- 
nial phlox growing in tall clumps, the flower head a 
bouquet. Because they rarely appear in the florists' win- 
dows, never in artificial flowers, and rarely in houses, the 
amateur of limited opportunities does not know their 
beauty. The appearance of the first bloom is the signal 
for a celebration in our garden. For years the fragrant 
white, the purest among flowers, was prime favorite, and 
is still, granting honors to a fine salmon rose and to a rich 
crimson-red variety. 

The family of hardy phlox is distinguished for its color 
and novelty, the talents for design noted in the phlox 
drummondii being carried along in star eyes and fine diffu- 
sions of white and lilac, carmine, violet, or crimson, or 
appearing in a startling contrast of the new French 
species which has a glowing orange-scarlet disk with a 
blood-red eye and other strange arrangements. 

The garden book says that phlox are "not too particu- 
lar," but has it not been your observation, as it has been 
mine, that some persons "not. too particular" thrive best 
and develop sweeter graces if given a little of the atten- 
tion their shyness forbids the asking for*? 

As the gate swings shut on a departing guest, and its 
lock springs fast and the bolt is speedily shot into place, 
we either enter a red-letter day in our calendar of pleasant 



136 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

memories or we sigh for the waters of forgetfulness to 
wash away the recollections of the one just gone who left 
shadows of regret in the desecration of the silence with 
trivial talk. 

It may not have been the echoes of gossip, better un- 
said, which stirred our reflections; perhaps it was only the 
idle chatter that in its way is as much out of place as a 
rag-time song from a graphophone when the wren in sing- 
ing her vespers above the low harmonies of an insect 
orchestra in the grass. 

Brief though it might have been, it was enough to re- 
mind us that the choice of friends is an art. We will put 
up with all sorts and conditions of personality with 
humorous indulgence on a railway journey or at a public 
gathering, because they are actors in the human comedy, 
but when we visit an art gallery, listen to music, set forth 
on a country ramble, or would enjoy the sweets of a gar- 
den, then it is time to choose, and to beware lest those 
enter who rush in where angels fear to tread. 

How often has it been that our goodness of heart has 
been its own undoing and our hospitable instincts have 
overruled our judgment. Our generosity is sadly de- 
ceived; the guest we invited to commune with our lilies 
could not free himself from the wit of a scandal, nor 
what he had heard at a play, and all our ingenuity to 
turn the talk from fashion to flowers was in vain. 

Such disappointments are lashes in the discipline of 



FRIENDSHIP OF FLOWERS 137 

experience, and good sense takes warning with a resolve 
to be choice in garden company, with a sudden recollec- 
tion that there have been those, some two or three, in 
whose presence we rise to higher levels and to whom a 
flowery inclosure is a sanctuary. This friendship needs 
no words — an exchange of glances, a clasp of the hand, 
and, the afternoon may pass quickly, the shadows grow 
long, and the sun rays creep higher and higher on the wall 
ere the gate closes on a promise to meet soon again. 

Then we understand the reminders of gentle Izaak 
Walton on fishermen choosing their company, and we 
vow that gardeners should do likewise, permitting none to 
taste of their salad or listen to the hum of the bees under 
the hollyhocks except a kindred soul in harmony with the 
best that is in us. 

The changing procession of perennials has brought an 
interlude when they are blossomless and seem to be hold- 
ing their breath while the tall lilies reign supreme. Soon 
after the lilies of the valley stopped blooming in May 
the other lily buds began to swell. The quaint little 
tigridias crept in and out, holding out their offerings for 
recognition, and the tall white lilies made a first appear- 
ance, shyly enough, in June. 

In a spot where the sun shines warmest the first lilium 
candidum, the white madonna lily, began to unfurl on 
Ascension Thursday, and, counting those on the shady 
side of the house, there will be white lilies right along 



138 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

until after the feast of the Annunciation, which, accord- 
ing to tradition, they must celebrate. No other lily has as 
many pet names or is as faithful to old gardens, multiply- 
ing and spreading regardless of hard frosts. Whether 
this fragrant lily is a candidum or not, the record refuses 
to say. Indeed, a certain woman nearly came to a pitched 
battle of words with a long-bearded gardener whom one 
had never accused of sentiment by calling a luxuriant tall 
white lilv a candidum when none such could be found in 
a catalogue. 

"Not so," cried this stubborn man, backing against his 
own hedge; "these are St. Josephs, those St. Annes, those 
of the Ascension, and these of the Annunciation," while 
the sharpest-eyed member of the party could not dis- 
tinguish a difference among them, and any one was a lily 
sheaf fit for the gentle hand of one honored among 
women. 

Bookish amateurs are wedded to Latin names mean- 
ingless to the flower lover brought up on the homely, 
old-fashioned terms. The only benefit that comes from 
memorizing them is that they form a universal nomen- 
clature, a familiar language known to gardeners whether 
in England, France, Germany, or Norway, and the pro- 
fessional who looks down on the humble house gardener 
will give her respect if she approaches him with a high- 
sounding Latin phrase, rich in resonant vowels. 

Hint to him of a glorious tiger lily you know at home 



FRIENDSHIP OF FLOWERS 139 

or have seen in his confines, and his indifference will chill 
you to the marrow; but talk softly of tigrinuin splendens 
or let murmurs of speciosum rubrum or lilium auratum 
fall from your lips, and at once he will melt, give you 
the grip of the brotherhood, and bid you welcome. 

To return to the lily beds, it is quite remarkable how a 
stalk or two will give mystery and romance as well as 
beauty to the humblest inclosure. The iris is a distant re- 
lation; and hastily passing in review the lilies you have 
seen and lilies read of, is there another flower species more 
wonderful in variety, more curious in quality and charms'? 

Just now the yellow and tawny orange lilies parade 
the fields to make pictures of color with ripened harvests 
and bronzed grasses. The lilium canadense, straggling 
carelessly from disorderly blades at the roots, has the 
appearance of longing to escape from gardens to run 
after the Turkp's-cap camping in the meadows. The 
plantain lily {funkia) is the most obedient grower of all, 
making it a pleasure to set prim rosettes of shining leaves 
along the edges of paths or as borders to the beds. 

The lilium speciosum rubrum, the crimson-banded 
lily, and the tigrinum splendens, most gorgeous of tiger 
lilies, are aristocrats from tip to toe. It is customary to 
set them in clumps of nine, the mystic number of the 
muses, and the rubrum looks its best in the early morning 
sun when the dew is exhaled from the grass, while the 
tigrinum splendens, so royal and gorgeous, is planted 



HO THE JOY OF GARDENS 

where it may enjoy midday heat and catch the lingering 
rays of later afternoon to keep on fire the warmth of its 
vivid, orange-red, mystic markings of purple and black. 
The liking for lilies is the test of the stranger. Does 
he treat the high-bred virility of the tiger lily with respect 
and turn toward the feminine loveliness of speciosum ru- 
brum with deference, we may know that he is in tune 
with our lares and penates, and open wide the gate to bid 
welcome as to a returning guest. 




A GARDEN AT ARDMORE, PENNSYLVANIA 



HERBS O' GRACE 

MY neighbor, a goodwife, believes that the foxes of 
the field and the birds of the air know the herbs 
of their salvation. In an old book we read that "the 
swallow cureth her dim eyes with celandine, the weasel 
knoweth well the virtue of herb grace, the dove the ver- 
vain and the dogge useth a kind of grass." Such was the 
confidence that guided the planting of our herb garden, 
whose simples saved the doctor's bills. 

One of the daintiest of all the plantlets to push its head 
above ground in the spring is the rue — as Ophelia names 
it, "herb o' grace o' Sundays" — because its dried stems 
made the brush to sprinkle holy water upon the faithful 
at church doors. Bitter as it is, and pungent to the nos- 
trils, it furnished four and eighty remedies, and was one 
of those tonics to clear the head made heavy with wine. 
Kings delighted in it as a charm against poisons, and it is 
in itself so pretty an herb when the dew is upon it that no 
one passes without pinching the leaves in recognition of 
its wondrous merits. When in blossom it adorns the 
spring with frail flowers so exquisite that they remind us 
of frilled lace of ancient pattern. 

141 



142 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Whether it be the bloom of the cherry time or when the 
lavender shows its purple, we accept it as an excuse to in- 
vite the neighbors to friendly communion. If one is very 
crafty in social matters she will plant a little herb garden 
for this purpose, and when entertainment becomes dull, 
cause a sensation by asking friends to the number of the 
muses to coffee and an herb chaplet. Nothing is finer for 
the linen chest than Drayton's chaplet of herbs, lending a 
cleanly odor to napery. 

Among the most ardent flower lovers will be sure to be 
those who will go on voyages of discovery among the 
plants, not recognizing the savory, the marjoram, or 
thyme from its dried package stamped by the grocer. The 
true herbalist will have his day, the one day of the year, 
and the herb gardener a fete not matched in the social 
annals. 

The poet's chaplet follows the fantastic rhyme — 

"A chaplet then of herbes I '11 make, 

Than which, though yours be braver, 
Yet this of mine, I '11 undertake, 

Shall not be short in savour. 
With Basil then I will begin, 

Whose scent is wondrous pleasing, 
The Eglantine I '11 next put in 

The sense with sweetness seizing. 
Then in the Lavender I '11 lay, 

Muscado put among it, 



HERBS O' GRACE 143 

With here and there a leaf of Bay 

Which still shall run along it. 
Germander, Marjoram and Thyme, 

Which used are for strowing, 
With Hyssop as an herb most prime 

Here is my wreath bestowing. 
Then Balm and Mint to help make up 

My chaplet, and for trial 
Costmary that so likes the cup ; 

Next to it Pennyroyal. 
Then Burnet shall bear up with this, 

Whose leaf I greatly fancy, 
Sweet Camomile doth not amiss 

With Savory and some Tansy. 
Then here and there I '11 put a sprig 

Of Rosemary into it, 
Thus, not too little nor too big, 

It 's done, if I can do it." 

The August sun crisping the foliage and ripening the 
seeds before we can snip the pods from the annuals has 
brought the herb harvest to its prime. This is one of the 
events of summer in the garden, and all else is put aside 
to make the best of it. It is not safe to wait until to- 
morrow, when the heat has dried the pungent leaves and 
the sap lost some of its fire, but, on the very day that the 
plants have reached maturity and the full glory of their 
growing, approach them with a devout heart, bearing 



144 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

basket and shears, and collect your herbs for the uses of 
winter. 

What a pity it would be if the honorable occupation of 
herb gathering should fade from the privileges of women, 
for it has pleasures of a dainty order, and the wonder is 
that there are not more of the gentler sex who embrace 
its work. It needs light fingers, knowledge, and wit, 
touches beauty and poetry, and lures into the meadows 
and forests. It is generous in its rewards, granting sweet 
graces of thought like those bequeathed to all who follow 
the beloved of the poets. 

Ever since one to the manor born in herb gathering 
trailed her frilled petticoats among the dewy mints to 
pinch a leaf of sweet basil crouched at the foot of 
the rue, the scanty corner set apart for herbs has not 
been the prosaic place the cook avers it to be. Sage and 
old-man seemed to bristle under her fingers, and to dis- 
pense perfumes after their kind as she recited legends 
from herb lore of "an herb for every pain." Banished 
forever is our faith in apothecaries who build their honor 
on coal-tar compounds, as these are as naught beside heal- 
ing plants distilled and brewed to cure an ache or to 
"minister to a mind diseased." 

All true herb gatherers are children of inheritance. 
The few that kind fortune has sent across my path in a 
lifetime have passed their wisdom by word of mouth as 
they learned it from some grandsire or ancient relative. 



HERBS O' GRACE 145 

Bit by bit it fell upon the ears while standing tiptoe 
before a white-doored cupboard. The shelves were filled 
with precious jars and vials, each bearing its own inscrip- 
tion in slant Italian lettering. The wisdom gained when 
hunting among the garret rafters lingers a lifetime. There 
bunches of drying odorous leaves hung among the wasps' 
nests; or, best of all, is the lore won through many long 
days tramping the woods for roots and herbs, haunting 
the marshes and streams, and in those hours when climb- 
ing lonely paths to rocky heights for plants that shun 
human association. 

To the true believer faith is firm in the jars of golden 
liquid standing neatly side by side on the shelves. The 
child looks upon them with awe ; but as one passes out of 
the old-homestead atmosphere and grows to years of dis- 
cretion, he may cherish a doubt if the lily leaves plucked 
from the garden in the "up of the moon" when the dew 
is jeweling their whiteness, and bottled away in fine old 
rye, possess the power accorded them of the medicinal 
nature of herbs. 

Is not this one of the primrose ways tempting the 
gentry, who look with horror on the wine that is red, to 
take an occasional draught "for the stomach's sake'"? 
The devotee of old-wives' wisdom and the learning of 
herb gatherers would cry heresy at the thought, for what 
other rite of the garden is like to that of gathering lily 
leaves in the radiance of a waxing moon, and storing 



146 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

them away to solace pain*? It is the very next thing to 
owning a fairy wand and to stepping into the fairy frolics 
of fairyland itself. 

Therefore know all men on the word of a sage that 
white day lilies do not bloom in vain, that their beauty 
and purity are created for those in distress, and next them 
is the foxglove — digitalis — whose juices distilled help the 
weary of heart. To these add, for completeness' sake, 
the decoctions of lavender, asphodel, and elder-blossom 
tops, cut with a silver knife to the words of an incanta- 
tion which warded off evil powers and preserved the heal- 
ing virtues of the plant. 

The ceremony of distillation, brew, or extraction is a 
serious process. Then comes the sealed bottling of the 
purest of amber liquors, to be served in time in the tiniest 
of crystal glasses — perchance so treasured that a portion 
is doled out in a deep-bowled silver spoon to the anxious 
pensioner for aid. Just one visit of the ancient relative 
herb gatherer is enough to change the entire aspect of the 
garden in the mind's. eye, and transform it from a pleas- 
ure spot to an inclosure of mysteries. No one records 
its secrets, which are told in whispers. 

Summer is hastening to the season of fruits. Let none 
delay to look upon her meadows and through the groves, 
for autumn is already on the threshold, lighting its 
torches of goldenrod, fanning the blaze of its cardinal 
flowers, and unveiling the stars of the aster tribes. 



HERBS O' GRACE 147 

Far and wide, to north, west, and south, are spread the 
farms with the harvest fields carpeted with cloth of gold 
and shocks of ripened grain heaped in marshaled ranks, 
as if the wealth of a treasure house of the Incas had been 
scattered, awaiting the luggage carriers of a marauding 
army. 

The clover meadows are showing another harvest of 
bloom, and the hum of bees is drowned by the rustle of 
the bladed corn waving its tasseled banners in great regi- 
ments whose numbers defy the count of spying eyes. 

The old days of the rail fence, which wormed its path 
along the highway, are gone with the era of stone walls 
that defied the storms of winter. Barriers of wire cob- 
webs hold clover and corn and the empires of grain within 
limits, and, like the magic sign written on the earth and 
in the air by fairy guards, order the herds of sleek cattle, 
the sheep and lambs and frolicsome colts, to keep within 
proper domains. 

But one strip of earth along the road is debatable 
ground and free to all the vagrants riding on the air or 
keeping close to the soil. These are the borders of the 
roadside, where live the weeds and the wild flowers, 
where the thorn trees and willows claim space, and wild 
rabbits and quail are sure of a sheltering tangle. 

In August the mints gather in mobs and make conven- 
tions on the miniature hills of the wayside of the high- 
lands. Mints are not solitary, preferring to assemble in 



i4« THE JOY OF GARDENS 

sociable families. The wild bergamot or horsemint deco- 
rates waste lands and the roadsides in masses of a lovely 
purple, each stem rising from the branched plant bearing 
its own beautifully arranged flower — a cluster of deli- 
cately fashioned bloom that has a spicy fragrance which 
lasts long after the flowers are gone and the foliage is sere 
and brown. 

The catnip has taken to parasitic habits along with 
domestic animals, and is to be found in doo^ards as well 
as afield. Another mint grows in sturdy branching plants 
with pointed leaves in whorls. Near the end of every up- 
ward standing branch the leaves masquerade as bloom in 
streaks of white and cream and deep rose, and beneath 
them are hidden marvelously constructed little flowers. 

Now and then a little colony of toadflax, the butter 
and eggs of old times, and the wee golden-haired snap- 
dragons left from the July fields tramp near the dusty 
highway. The brilliant butterfly weed robed in the 
orange of sunset spreads its gorgeous clusters where the 
sands are deep, and perchance, if the earth has beaten 
hard under many hoofs and forgotten, it has been speed- 
ily clothed in the lacy foliage and starry daisies of the 
rock camomile. 

Boneset and yarrow are likewise common among wild 
flowers, rarely receiving the appreciation they deserve be- 
cause of their omnipresence in the pastures as familiar as 
the camomile in the stable yards of the farms. Boneset 



HERBS O' GRACE 149 

clusters are grayish white at a distance, showing many 
fairy flowers on close acquaintance. Frequently the gray 
blossoms are tinged with a rosy hue like the blush of 
dawn. 

At the foot of its taller companions the pearly ever- 
lasting establishes little communities of its own which are 
not to be driven out by ordinary means. Overshadowing 
it, black-eyed Susan twists its yellow-frilled ruff on its 
long neck, looking across to the spikes of blue vervain, 
bluer than a rain-washed sky of May. Bouncing Bet in 
her primal days must have hung over the gate by the 
light of the moon, for along country ways, if she is no- 
where else to be found, you will surely spy her ruffled cap 
under the shadows of a fence post or assembled just with- 
out a gate. 

Late August shows few lingerers from the wild carrot, 
the queen's lace handkerchief from field-flower comedy. 
Its prettiness has given place to the milkweeds, many of 
which seem frail enough to vanish with the evening 
breeze. 

At the very margin of the wayside, where the wheels 
cut furrows in the sod, the mullein sets out its rosettes of 
silver-gray velvet leaves, and from the midst of such royal 
furnishing rises the tall stem adorned with velvet ears and 
lightened by pale yellow blossoms. 

Another distinguished plant just now is the evening 
primrose, modest in its sunny color; and, should the high- 



150 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

way we have been following descend the hill to a marshy 
bottom, the joe-pyeweed, ironweed, milkweed, and lowly 
grass of Parnassus are to be found in the moist places. 
Sheltered by a hedge or thicket, the cardinal flower hides 
its glowing color of warmest red. It may be that one of 
the late lilies, the red lily of the meadow or the saucy 
Turk's-cap, rises from its sword-shaped lances of green 
and, did one care to penetrate the marsh, there are the 
modest water-liking mallows, the bed straw, jewel weed, 
and other plants that seek the cool black earth. 

Crowded in the fence corners, wild blackberry brambles 
set their thorns against intruders, and here are the climb- 
ing vines, a mass of wild vetches, and an army of blue 
harebells that dare not take to the open road. 

Up hill and down winds the highway, bordered on 
either side with August wild flowers shut off from the 
fields. These are the heralds of autumn, snatching the 
hues from the sky and sunset west. And truly it seems 
that "earth 's crammed with heaven, and every common 
bush afire with God, a conflagration of color." 



WHILE AUTUMN LINGERS 

NOW the sunflowers great and small have assembled 
for their annual home-coming at the gates of Sep- 
tember. As the passing of summer was marked on the 
almanac of yesterday, it seemed as if the morning would 
discover a flitting of flowers over night, and that the gar- 
den would look deserted and bare, but again the clans of 
the helianthus have trooped to the rescue. From an 
upper window where one can look afar you may see them 
coming on the margins of dusty highways, in grassy lanes, 
across the fields, nodding their pretty heads and keeping 
tryst with autumn. Their sunshine gladdens the for- 
gotten wastes, it lights the tapers of the goldenrod, and 
gives an alluring sheen to the purple distance. 

If, like Puck, we could girdle the earth in the twink- 
ling of an eye, it should be done this day by passing the 
greetings from one sunflower to another from the reef of 
Norman's Woe, following the New England highways, 
the National Pike, and the Santa Fe Trail westward 
through the mountain passes, to the last yellow bouquet 
on the edge of the desert. The clew should be caught 
again in the Sierras, until the trail led to blossoms 

151 



152 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

in Golden Gate Park, reflecting the setting sun slipping 
low in the blue waters of the rolling Pacific. 

What other flower can boast an ancestry traced to the 
courts of Helios, what other has as charming a legend for 
its heritage as that of Clytie, whose adoring face is ever 
turned toward her god in the sun chariot 1 ? 

Whenever we walk abroad in the fresh morning air, or 
rest in the cool of the evening, the tall sunflowers are 
looking down at us from the other side of the fence. 
Fancy paints a curious face behind the powdered gold 
mask set in a fringe of radiant yellow which seems to be 
hammered out of pure gold. And if one steals around 
the back way to examine the sturdy plants garmented in 
abundant foliage, the uncanny superstition grows, and 
they appear to be some gallant grenadiers of flowerdom 
appointed to report for duty. 

Another of the many queer traits of human nature is 
that which leads us to overlook the good common things 
and to hunt for the rare and unusual. Many an hour 
have we nursed a garden plant that refused to be recon- 
ciled to our earth and care, while, if we had been content 
to give our energy to native plants that would grow, we 
should have had an enviable spectacle of bloom from 
spring to autumn. 

And with this is the reflection that many a time have 
we spent our strength in pursuit of false gods, of idle 
friendships, of superficial amusements, when the right 




APPROACH TO A WATER l.ARDEN, LAKE COMU, ITALY 



WHILE AUTUMN LINGERS 153 

and true of the everyday plan was at our doors. Autumn 
is a season for thinking over, and the good company of 
the sunflowers has been the reason for moralizing. 

The neighbor who planted a screen of sunflowers along 
his chicken yard is rejoicing now. The hens themselves 
cluck of seeds to come, and the cock has mounted the 
fence post to herald the news abroad. Any one who 
sowed a seed in the spring has a smile of satisfaction at 
the sunflower prodigality. The lesser members of the 
tribes helianthus, the coreopsis, goldenglow, calliopsis, 
calendulas, and the rudbeckias and marigolds, take a 
second start in life if the shears have been used on their 
faded bloom and superfluous growths snipped away. 

Yellow is the color of sunshine and happiness, and at 
the beginning of the fall of the year, when we are think- 
ing of winter, the yellows shed glory everywhere. Where 
masses appear in the border, the purple asters seem more 
royal, the blood red of the lobelia cardinalis takes a 
warmer hue, and the whites of nicotinas, cosmos, and 
little asters are snowy in contrast. 

The sunflowers and their allies play leading parts in 
the pageant of September. While there is a similarity in 
the character of ray flowers, there are differences in wood- 
land grace, a lavishness of bloom as if every plant was 
trying to outdo its neighbor in flowering. 

There are signs of a second childhood in the vigorous 
ambition of the sweet alyssum to make white ribbons, and 



154 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

the blue lobelia never shone so blue in June as it does 
now, when it reaches an intensity in its color as strong as 
the temper of the red that flames in the zinnias and of the 
ever-faithful salvia. The touch of adversity in the frost 
in the air puts them on their mettle, and they will make 
the most of the days before them. 

The mounds of foliage plants should have reached 
their prime, the calladiums attained their maximum 
size, the castor beans grown to trees, the cannas put forth 
their most luxuriant growth, and the seed grasses, waving 
gracefully between, be loaded with seeds. It is a proving 
of the early planning, and things come to the test, just 
as the mountain ash hangs out its bunches of orange 
berries, the rugosa roses fatten their brilliant fruits, and 
Japanese quinces hang heavy in the hedges. 

The hydrangea paniculata grandiflora — a name as 
splendid as the shrub itself — is conspicuous in suburban 
parks. Out comes the garden notebook, and, if none 
graces our premises, down goes the resolve to have it. 
The rose of Sharon of the Althsea kindred has climbed 
to successes unheard of, a flower for every twig, and 
wreaths of blossoms and clean foliage — a flower miracle 
on the lawn as striking in its way as the hydrangea. 
It hints of mallow and hollyhock and of the cottage amid 
meadows. 

It is a mistake to imagine that because the sun is turn- 
ing southward all is at an end, and that the woods and 



WHILE AUTUMN LINGERS 155 

marshes suggest melancholy days to come. The flower 
hunter has treasures of color in the groves and open 
country ready for the plucking. 

All seem to come at once when the sunflowers make 
their home-coming. It is a celebration of beauty in the 
garden among the gentle plants, and a field day where 
the upland asters and tramp sunflowers seem to chat of 
helianthus cucumerifolius, content to live in gardens 
while its perennial relatives seek the highways. 

Autumn lingers far away when the summer hours are 
stealing along and "a light of laughing flowers across the 
grass is spread." Then there comes a brilliant day vibrant 
with luxurious warmth and languor. At sunset long level 
bars of purple stretch across the crimson west, mountains 
of vapor are heaped on the northern horizon, and flashes 
of lightning play upon the snowy summits, while to the 
south the ragged fragments of storm clouds scud away 
from an aftermath of a distant hurricane, and, from the 
courts where the sun sets burning red, float long pennants 
of violet mist streaming across the sapphire skies to the 
infinite reaches of the zenith. 

Morn dawns after a night when the winds blow east 
and then blow west, and the earliest breeze brings an 
arctic breath; the fragrance of northern pine forests 
comes in at the window, and we awake to the presence of 
autumn. The quality of sunshine has changed to a mel- 
lower light, and the fervid heat has been tempered and 



156 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

veiled at midday, while through the long afternoon 
broods the calm of contentment. 

If we were to believe the flowers — the cosmos, nico- 
tinas, tritomas, phlox, cardinal flowers, turtleheads, and 
lilies and nasturtiums keeping a bold front in the pres- 
ence of the dahlias and gladioli — we would turn the 
pages of the log book and begin another month of blos- 
soms. But the September calendar announces seedtime, 
and among my dreams there are none so ardent as those 
that picture the future better than the past. 

Next year the progeny of the golden-eyed coreopsis 
shall have many square yards to itself; next year the big 
snapdragons will become greater giants by sowing the 
seed in a sunnier place; next year the poppies shall stir 
envy in the hearts of the town. Then we haste to gather 
the seeds. 

One of the privileges of pride in gardening is showing 
off its treasures to friends. It is a pure delight, for you 
are parading the glories of nature. And what think you 
when, boldly before your watching eyes, some thoughtless 
guest breaks off the seed that you have been nursing for 
days? What would you do when they take "slips" from 
your symmetrical begonias and geraniums'? What say 
you when they wait till your back is turned and help 
themselves to a root of your choice dahlias, or smuggle a 
hoped-for Mefistofile or Baron Hulot gladiolus in their 
pockets'? 



WHILE AUTUMN LINGERS 157 

These grievances, as old as Adam and his garden, have 
vexed every flower gatherer since that indefinite period 
B.C.; and who will declare that chance visitors from the 
Land of Nod did not help themselves to cuttings from 
the Tree of Life? History is silent concerning a vast 
quantity of important happenings of a time in which we 
are safe in supposing that human nature was already 
gifted with its tangents. 

With a weakness for festivals and saints' days, I have 
often wondered why the almanac forgot seed gathering 
in the flower garden. In fact, others have spoken of it 
with a thought of introducing an event along with "Bird 
Day" and "Midsummer Eve" and the "Harvest Home." 
Then we reflected that the spirit of vexation walks 
abroad in the flower garden, and the elves of the wind 
make sport with good intentions. 

There is this difference to be considered between well- 
bred cereals and flowers — the first are fairly prompt in 
their ripening and the harvester knows when to step in 
and gather his grain, and the second uses such a variety 
of methods in attending to personal affairs that the gar- 
dener must be wise and forehanded if he can forestall 
them. 

All through life we are negligent in storing virtues to 
make joy for future seasons; so all summer long we 
overlook seed gathering. On a day in August it was 
decided to let the flowers go to seed. The cook wanted 



158 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

nasturtium pods for her pickles, and the gardener had 
marked the best colors and the most perfect flowers in 
all the borders either with a tag or gay yarn whose hue 
has a meaning for him, or with a bit of wire and bam- 
boo on which is written what he does not remember. 

In the cool of his sanctum on a hot afternoon he marks 
a hundred little envelopes and fits them in a box, for it is 
right to do everything in order, and the card-catalogue 
system is the best for seeds as well as for cooking recipes 
and many another thing. 

All seems to be going well on the eve before the day 
of seed collecting, to which a favorite neighbor has been 
invited; for surely there is enough for many. It is prob- 
able that the gamut of splendid color run by the Mexican 
zinnias has not missed a note in its scale in ripening seeds, 
and the pansies were never in better shape, the poppies 
have formed shapely pepper boxes, the sweet Williams 
and pinks have filled their goblets, and the balloon vine 
and Chinese lantern hang their fruits from the wire 
netting. 

It is true we missed the columbine seeds in the wind 
that shook them from their cups on a stormy night in 
June; and, before we forget it, a search should be made 
for the lady's paintbrush that the children begged for — 
and could its fate be a hint of what came after 1 ? On a 
pincushion top tilted a single seed, which sailed away on 
its own parachute while we watched it. 



WHILE AUTUMN LINGERS 159 

The delay was fatal — putting off until to-morrow 
what should have been done yesterday. The lady's-slip- 
pers popped their seeds as fast as they ripened. The 
innocent purple pansies had unclasped the fairy hands of 
their jewel cases and thrown the petals far and wide, and 
the violet was doing the sly trick of burying its pods in 
the earth, as if to imitate the heron's-bill, which has run 
the point of its ripened head into the ground and planted 
its seeds after its own fancy. 

It was a mystery — and is to this day — how the poppies 
succeeded in emptying their box pods of the last seed, and 
no science will ever explain the wonders of wealth that 
are hidden in the black pearls of the cockscomb which 
gemmed the leaves of the creeping musk under the plants. 
Even the petunias had knocked the caps off their little 
cups and spilled the treasure, and the rings of hollyhock 
seeds skipped here and there from the plants as soon as 
you touched them. 

With a thankful heart we recall the name of a reliable 
seedsman and his wonderfully pictured lists, and are glad 
that there is no moralist at hand to talk of the sins of 
omission and commission and seed gathering for another 
world. 



MY LADY DAHLIA TAKES THE AIR 

ALL the neighborhood is topsy-turvy, and weeds 
growing full speed in the borders, because it is 
dahlia time. The fanciers have assembled on street 
corners, talked long and late under the front windows, 
and declared their red-letter day of the year has come, 
because one among them has bred a new dahlia not in the 
calendar. It is unique; it does not match any heard-of 
description. 

The dahlia passion is not half so ridiculous as some 
others, as it does effect an annual climax. The flower 
makes its appeal to the masculine sense — that is, more 
men than women may be counted among the dahlia en- 
thusiasts — and next to tulip madness is the speculation in 
dahlia bulbs in a quiet way by the very persons you would 
not suspect. 

Friend K., coolest of business men, has haunted a cor- 
ner in his yard since he planted the dusty tubers in the 
spring. It leaked out through one of the children that a 
box of dahlia roots had come from France, but not a word 
was said of the matter. A knot of pink string dis- 
tinguished one green stalk from the clump of a dozen, and 

1 60 



MY LADY DAHLIA 161 

that was the stalk that brought to light the new dahlia. 
As dahlia collectors have as little conscience as curio 
fanatics, it would not have been safe to make the pros- 
pects public lest thieves come at night, and inquisitive 
eyes peer over the fence by day. 

Friend K. assures the commonplace gardeners who are 
not dahlia experts that they have brought him good for- 
tune. His dahlias afford him an outlet for his nervous 
energy. They are something to think about not argued 
over in the daily paper, and from the hour of putting his 
roots in the earth, labeling and bracing the plants to 
stakes, he has a source of interest dependent only upon 
the sunshine and rain, as, fortunately, few pests come the 
way of his dahlias. 

Since the birth of his passion he has a score of corres- 
pondents who, like himself, are absorbed in dahlia cul- 
ture, who keep log books and records of pedigrees, who 
enter them at county fairs, and know every perfect dahlia 
which is in the family tree of the aristocracy written down 
in catalogues. Whenever there is a flurry in the busi- 
ness world down town, Friend K. gets out his dahlia cata- 
logues if it is winter, or goes to the garden if it is summer. 

The worried lines on his forehead give place to others 
of keen interest and hopefulness as he makes notes in the 
log book of triumphs in color and hints for another season, 
and the next morning he questions the truthfulness of 
stock reports, looks at the market with optimism, and cuts 



162 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

two of his choicest blossoms to present to a fellow enthu- 
siast in the next office. As he gets on the train he thanks 
his lucky stars that he has dahlias to comfort him, and 
feels that a fairy godmother smiled over his cradle and 
frowned on the unenlightened neighbors. 

Just as we have found it hard to convince others of 
grounds for our enthusiasm in flowers, Friend K. has dis- 
covered that dahlias "are Greek" to other men. His golf 
chum, W., looks at him curiously as he comes in with a 
lurking smile and whistles contentedly to himself. When 
the world is at sixes and sevens in a financial way, Friend 
K. wears a monster crimson dahlia on his coat and sits on 
the sunny side of the car without grumbling. 

Has he dropped out of society, that he chooses a dusty 
laborer for his companion 1 ? And what can he find to say 
to him, though he has a crushed dahlia in his buttonhole 
which perhaps a child put there as she said "good-by'"? 
And as W. listens, his puzzle over Friend K.'s sanity 
deepens, and the phrases are meaningless: "Seed in 
March in boxes — thirty-seven varieties — bewildering col- 
ors — purest strain known — madder red — sunflower yel- 
low — perfect to a petal — no sports," and so on. As the 
voices rise above the rumble of wheels, W. observes that 
others join the group, and the wordy war on the compara- 
tive values of seedlings and tuber-grown sends him out 
of hearing of such jargon. Of course, a man has a right 
to a fad. 



MY LADY DAHLIA 163 

The dahlia fancier is a man of a type. It may be that 
you who read are one ; and if so, look down into your own 
soul and discover why you consume so much interest on 
so unresponsive a flower. The dahlia is splendid in vel- 
vety texture, gorgeous colors, and construction, but its 
elegance of dress, like that of so many dames we know, 
has taken its all and forgotten its spirit. It is more of a 
wallflower than the wallflower itself, standing aloof, giv- 
ing nothing and taking much without a breath of per- 
fume. This is whispered sub rosa; it is heresy in the ears 
of dahlia enthusiasts walking in their gardens at this very 
hour, yet they have their stings of disappointment, too, to 
pray for our sympathy. They may be secretive in Spar- 
tan reserve, but it hurts. 

Imagine a newly elected devotee in the early spring 
dreaming of the beauty of all that he has seen in the 
autumn and, with the illustrated catalogue, hoping for 
royal successes in the summer before him. His tubers are 
set, his seeds are planted, and he awaits the momentous 
hour of opening buds. What are his emotions when he 
beholds his supreme treasure of last year, that may be of 
burnished gold, a "sport" of this season, the brilliant 
fluted rosette marred by an unbecoming patch of common 
red ! In his haste he may pull it up and throw it on the 
ash heap, and then turn to the garden log book to 
check up the descendants of 1907 in the column of 1908. 
Then sign follows sign as more "freaks" enter the lists, 



164 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and the notes at the foot of the page are more elaborate 
than those in the orderly margin. 

Yet if he can register but two or three loyal high-bred 
varieties, and half a dozen gorgeous newcomers, some 
accounted for by his purchases and trades and others that 
he hopes are the result of his own breeding, he accepts 
the conviction that dahlia growing, like life, has its ups 
and downs. 

If the next mail brings a letter and a catalogue from 
another dahlia fanatic the hurt of disappointment is 
gone, and the grower has a succession of visions of 
singles, doubles, ten-inch monsters, and dwarf chickadees, 
— decorative, pompon, and cactus-bred and chrysan- 
themum-mannered, — and, as the fire of passion flares up 
again, he turns to his gentle gardener partner and says: 
"Next year." 

What is there to compare with a fancy like this in 
which men of affairs have found refreshment in working 
with nature? The ancient magic has not fled the earth 
so long as common man can bury a dahlia tuber in early 
spring and bid it be gay in autumn, confident that it will 
keep the tryst with him — which it does. 

Flower gatherers lingering in the twilight know the 
hour by the kindling of the gypsy fires. The red flames 
make circles of light in the gloom, and wreaths of smoke 
curl upward as if from the burning of some sacrifice. All 
through the long summer days the gypsy caravans 



MY LADY DAHLIA 165 

followed the country byroads, camping at night in shaded 
nooks near ever-flowing springs of fresh water, and asking 
largess of no man. Summer gave generously of her high- 
way fruits, and the night repeated no gossip of visited 
cornfields, haunted gardens, or the vanishing of stray 
chickens. 

But the first hint of frost in the air brings the gypsy 
nearer his settled kindred, and he lights his autumnal 
camp fires on the edges of villages and the outskirts of 
cities. You may see the flame of the caravan's torches 
to-night after sunset on the prairies which they have 
known for years to the southwest and the northwest, 
though the growing city has given warning that they must 
move farther on. 

Many a housewife double locks the door at the vision 
of a dark-browed Romany peering above her garden 
fence, or hastily drops her curtain when the gypsy for- 
tune-telling princess and her alluring band approach the 
back door. She knows that there will be mischief abroad 
in the neighborhood, that prophecies will sow discontent 
among the maids. 

She knows that the boys will be drawn by the romance 
of the camp fires, and that men will dicker in the shad- 
ows behind the wagons. All the glamour veiling a race 
that has wandered since the making of the world, count- 
ing themselves in league with the powers of darkness, 
does not overcome that insistent suspicion that bids us 



166 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

beware of the gypsy, who toils not, neither does he spin. 
Yet for all that we may send greeting to the gypsy, out- 
side the pale of our lives though he be. For he loves the 
open world, the night, and the sunrise, and his is an in- 
domitable spirit that refuses to bend to conventions and 
the money craze of the time. His is an unquenchable 
thirst for freedom. 

But the gypsy of the black eye and gay-striped skirt 
and tinsel-trimmed jacket is not the only mischief-making 
tramp in the fields in September. The human gypsy is a 
gay, light-footed soul, but not so fleet as the winged 
gypsies, the moths and butterflies that are putting in their 
tricks among the late vegetables in the gardens and the 
autumn flowers. 

Swarms of little white butterflies flutter their wings 
over the cabbage patch, the parsley beds, and the nastur- 
tium borders. Armies of warm-hued, brown-winged 
creatures have invaded the city streets, and the butterfly 
lover is bewildered at the numbers and varieties to be 
seen above the marshes and where goldenrod and asters 
are in bloom. The mischief-making gypsy butterflies 
are living swiftly in the brief period of life permitted 
them. It is birth from a hidden chrysalis, courtship, mar- 
riage, and the laying of eggs among plants where the 
hatched grubs may find material to fatten upon and the 
fine threads with which to spin cocoons from which to 
begin a new cycle of existence. 



MY LADY DAHLIA 167 

Butterfly life is fascinating, and to our unseeing eyes 
free from care, yet who can imagine a more dutiful or a 
busier one bent on making ends meet'? When all is said, 
it is near that of the Romany who builds his camp fires 
where others have cut wood, and who sets his youngling 
at the barn gate at milking time. 

The butterfly gypsy plays havoc in the parsley bed and 
cuts many a cabbage and tobacco leaf. It is a mischief- 
maker of the first order. Its beauty of painted wing and 
jeweled head does not blind us to its purposes in life. 
Other gypsies frequent the waste places, steal through 
the broken paling in the garden fence, and excite the 
wrath of the man who sows and reaps. These are the 
weeds now in the high tide of their mischievous careers. 
As in the case of Romany, there is a sense of caste among 
them, high-born and lofty mannered and the lowly 
tramps. The goldenrod, wild sunflowers, mints, and 
asters are camp followers, and much is forgiven because 
of their beauty. 

The true gypsies are the ragweed, Indian hemp, pig- 
weed, hogweed, plantain, pusley, smartweed, and thistles 
— and not to be forgotten and mighty in their schemes, 
the whole bur family. They seem bent on annoying 
humankind; and, unless one looks closely, they do not 
have signs of beauty to invite the passing interest. Not 
so daintily winged as the butterfly nor gifted with the 
turn of temper of a Romany of the camp fire, the gypsy 



i68 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

weed plods along in the dust, intent on winning more 
acreage and looking out for his chance to perpetuate his 
kind. 

The ragweed has a prettily cleft leaf which seems as if 
nature put herself out to invent a particularly good pat- 
tern. Above quite a graceful plant rises the central stalk, 
with tiers of what seem to be greenish buds, but the eye is 
misled; every round green cap covers a dainty flower 
which actually showers golden pollen at your touch. The 
ragweed is lavish in its supply, and takes no chances with 
economy ; it is determined to survive and send generations 
down the line. It scatters its pollen on the wind in boun- 
tiful supplies, waving its wee bells in triumph as the 
sneezing human nature passes by in frank recognition 
that the evil hour of "hay fever" is at hand. 

The smartweed is a near relative of princes'-feather, 
with a pretty pink plume, and the smartweed bloom is 
not to be despised in a wild-flower bouquet. Camomile 
is modest and daisy eyed, mallow has a wee flower and 
little cheeses for the play teas of children, but these are 
the gay young Romany folk who invite to the presence of 
their coarser elders. 

The ragged pigweed is a gypsy tramp of unredeeming 
qualities. It comes uninvited, and steals its food from 
the soil without a friendly return. It is in league with 
the winds, and flies on the gales, begging for transporta- 
tion. Though not provided with the hooks by which the 



MY LADY DAHLIA 169 

burs catch fast to my lady's skirts and follow the trail of 
cattle and sheep, not disdaining to take passage on the 
tail of a high-stepping thoroughbred if that will serve a 
purpose, the pigweed makes its way in search of new 
worlds to conquer. 

By far more degenerate than human or butterfly gypsy, 
it manages to add its generations of happy-go-lucky career 
without embellishing the records of beauty or romance of 
the summers of centuries past and present. 

Yet we may be mistaken. A wiser age may discover 
uses for weeds, and a turn of the wheel of fortune pamper 
them that they rise in the scale of loveliness. 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 

Y a strange oversight the garden books have slighted 
the art of making gardens for children. Of course a 
garden is a fairyland at any time, a wilderness of pure 
delight, and the most barren can be decked with fancy 
until it blooms like the Vale of Cashmere. We who have 
always loved gardens from our earliest days, and remem- 
ber those of the first years of childhood, know how great 
the contrast is between the flowery land of our dreams and 
the fenced inclosure that we return to visit after a score of 
years and are told that it has not changed at all. Where 
is the glamour and whither has flown the vision fair 4 ? 

Blessed childhood, blessed with rosy hopes and faith 
that all before and about us is what we wish it to be! 
The rosebush with the single rose is a bower, the strug- 
gling bed of posies the source of every perfume and 
delight in flower land. They are ours for the day or the 
summer, and what can compare beside them ! 

Next to being born with a dreaming fancy is the rare 
gift of an imaginative friend to take the child by the 
hand and to make fairy rings grow in the grass and elves 
live in every flowery cup. Such a friend throws wide the 

170 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 171 

windows of the soul to poetry and to beauty in after life. 
It is a gift of inheritance abiding with the years and be- 
yond the changes of fickle fortune. 

Little yellow-haired Barbara lives in a fine garden 
planned by a garden architect. It is superb, a landscape 
picture in masses of foliage of varied greens in dense 
shade, broken by patches of filtered lights where the sun 
scatters living gold on a carpet of emerald; and all along 
the borders wave ribbons of color as perfect as if painted 
from the palette of a master artist — as truly they were. 
Little Barbara walks up and down the flowery ways, and 
perchance stops to pluck a clover bloom in the grass, or a 
shepherd' s-purse that through some mysterious dispensa- 
tion of Providence escaped the lawn mower and the eagle 
eye of the garden architect. 

And while now and then she stops to smell a fragrant 
bud or to watch a grumbling bee dust himself with gold 
as he forces his way to the treasures of snapdragon or nas- 
turtium, she never dares to take a flower for her own, 
though they hold up their pretty heads with mute 
affection and seem to talk to her in flower language. 
When no one is watching, Barbara throws conscience to 
the winds, and hunts the loose panel of the iron fence 
and slips off down the road to the washerwoman's. There 
the children, one and all, make clover chains and pick the 
four-o'clocks blooming industriously in the chicken yard, 
where hens are dusting themselves under the sunflowers 



172 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

and it is free and pleasant in the shade of an old apple 
tree. 

It is a fete day when Barbara comes to our garden. 
The architect had no hand in its planning, and near the 
close of the summer its beauty shows the wear of a season, 
though some plants are blossoming valiantly enough. 
The strip of bed set apart for Barbara's pleasure gives fun 
to fill a week of holidays. It is thick with original plants, 
and, as I think of it, it reminds me of the jolly company 
that gathers for an annual picnic, each one with his own 
basket and his bag of jokes and a riddle book. No feeble, 
characterless creature was invited in. The lady's-slippers 
brought their trees of flowers and bursting seeds, Job's- 
tears carried silver beads, the balloon vine strung inflated 
green bubbles along its climbing stem, the flycatcher 
spread its molasses around its stem to trap the little ants 
and gnats, and a big clump of four-o'clocks opened 
promptly with the clock, and then slept late in the morn- 
ing sunshine. 

Among the evils to be trampled down in the ascent 
to the higher life the poet Longfellow prayed to be de- 
livered from "irreverence for the dreams of youth." In 
those youthful dreams are the forget-me-nots, the sensi- 
tive plants, bachelors' -buttons, Canterbury bells, colum- 
bines, love-in-tangle, snapdragons, dusty millers, ragged 
robins, immortelles, and black-eyed Susans that the 
garden architect scorns. 




TERRACE WALK, HOME OF MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
KENT, KNGLAND 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 173 

The humbler members of the larkspur family, so faith- 
ful in supporting a mass of blue color in the artistic land- 
scape, furnish spurs to make the loveliest larkspur chains 
for childish play. For the same reason one should encour- 
age daisies, the little pink English flower, "wee, modest, 
crimson-tipped thing," and the marguerite, by which one 
can tell if "he loves me or loves not" and make daisy 
chaplets. 

Pinks great and small, the sweet clove pink, double 
and single pinks, are prime favorites. Boys take most 
kindly to pinks, and the husky lad, who sniffs at the 
flower garden in general, tries to wear a spice pink in his 
buttonhole as long as the plants are in bloom. The phlox 
drummondii is another boyish favorite, though it has no 
tempting odor. There must have been something appeal- 
ing in the star-eyed design that induced a boy to work 
among his phlox every day and keep a small book record 
of thirty-three different patterns of reds and whites, yel- 
lows and mauves, star-eyed and ring-eyed, streaked and 
splashed in freaks of color. 

The petunia has color, and the portulaca is a quaint 
plant if there is not enough room for another. Its juicy 
foliage sparkles with dewy lights, its innocent flowers of 
purest yellows, reds, carmines, and white, and later the 
curious seed pods make it a never-ending source of delight. 

I fear that the rank odor of the marigold keeps it from 
the place in the affections that it should have, but many a 



i 7 4 THE JOY 0F GARDENS 

time has a little child gazed fondly at the golden frills, 
thinking of King Midas' "Mary Gold" and the story of 
the golden touch. The cockscomb and princes'-feather 
have their personal association too, and the shining seeds 
of cockscomb, like so many black pearls, are gems among 
the treasures of children. 

No one with sentiment would deny a child all the rose- 
geranium leaves, all the rosemary, old-man, lemon ver- 
bena, and feverfew that it wanted, and the privilege to 
make bouquets after any fashion that it saw fit. More 
than one little Barbara pines for a garden in which to put 
the plants and to pluck them as she will; and the very 
best time to decide on such a garden for next year is just 
now. 

The phrases of the Good Book are eloquent of a com- 
mon-sense wisdom which we do not always accept as we 
should to our own enlightenment. The oft-repeated text, 
"Eyes have they and see not, ears have they and hear 
not," is one of the finest educational warnings ever writ- 
ten. The children's garden is more than a passing amuse- 
ment. Its possibilities are so many that we shall be 
forgiven if we do not attempt to master them all. 

The crime of crimes is that of selfishness, and of gar- 
dens be it said that they of all things, next to the nurture 
of a little child, have no place for idle coddling of the 
weeds of self-indulgence. They may open the eyes to 
the pleasure of seeing beauty and interest in the marvels 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 175 

of nature, and ask for an unselfish care to be rewarded 
with the response of sweet returns. It is theirs to awaken 
curiosity for plants everywhere, and to open the ears to 
the songs of birds, the insect orchestra which dwells 
within gardens, and all the while to sharpen the 
inner spiritual sight to things invisible yet present in the 
atmosphere. 

From the child's garden of simple plants to the fields 
is a short step, and at autumn how glorious is the treat ! 
A neglected pasture is a paradise. Here the mints riot 
after their own fashion; bergamot, horsemint, and others 
of various names that have lingered past the summer, fill 
the air with a pungent scent; and here live the late cone 
flowers and the rudbeckias. Some vervain may wave its 
blue spears here. 

The milkweed is busy filling its pods of silk, and the 
everlastings are trimming their snowy flowers to make a 
good appearance before frost. Ironweed and fireweed 
and butterfly weed stayed as long as the warm days. 
Their roseate mauves and dull purples gave rich hues to 
the spread of color. Down in the grass, the silene, the 
starry and bladder campions, loosestrife and turtlehead 
and ladies'-tresses go on flowering as if autumn was not 
near. Here the closed gentian, sturdier than the fringed, 
makes bluer its globes to match the sky, and perhaps wild 
chicory along the edge of the harvest field mirrors its 
cerulean hues. The boneset and tansy tower above the 



i 7 6 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

grass; the leaves of the sassafras blush scarlet; and the 
flower hunter, gathering them all, goes home through 
the purple twilight laden with the spoils of the last of the 
procession of flowers. 

Overwork should be counted among the unpardonable 
sins. Too often the day of labor stretches beyond the 
eight hours and cuts off the needed spell of leisure. 
Many of us are so deeply dyed in this sin of incessant 
work that the conscience does not trouble us while we are 
pushing the spade or weeding with aching back, and for- 
getting that we are not giving praise for fair skies and 
sunshine. 

But just as soon as the play feeling comes upon us, 
and we should like to be children once more, frolic with 
the lambs, make crowns of oak leaves, and disport with 
nature, up rises the warning voice, "Thou shalt labor," 
and we are overburdened with the idea that all is wrong. 
If by chance a friend comes along who believes in the 
gospel of play and in the religion of leisure, our spirits 
may take a holiday, yet never forgetting the sneaking 
sense of guilt. 

There should be moments to gratify the longing for 
joy, though common sense tells us the battle between 
order and disorder is continuing among the pansies and 
the dahlias as well as in the business marts. While Tho- 
reau contemplated society from his solitude near Walden 
Pond he made the conclusion that "a broad margin of 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 177 

leisure is as beautiful in a man's life as in a book. Haste 
makes waste no less in life than in housekeeping. Yet the 
man who does not betake himself at once desperately to 
sawing is called a loafer, though he may be knocking at 
the door of heaven all the while, which shall surely be 
opened to him." 

The ideal life would know how to measure labor and 
leisure. Life without innocent joy is dwelling in penal 
servitude, for bread and butter do not feed the soul, and 
the slave may have food and clothes and shelter. Then 
let us apportion our days — time for work and time for 
play — and let the children into the secret. If ours is the 
right eloquence in spreading the gospel of leisure and the 
spirit of innocent play, the next generation will have a 
finer cheerfulness. 

We may knock at the door of heaven, giving praise in 
pleasure as well as in work. Religion with a sour face 
and downcast eye was invented by the evil one, we know, 
because it is so hard to follow when the natural world, 
free to the hand of the Creator, smiles and is glad. 

A subtle fancy may question what curse sealed the 
door of the senses that man should live blind to the sub- 
limity of the heavens and the panorama of the year, deaf 
to the music of the winds and nature's songsters, and 
unheedful of the summons of the divine upon earth, until 
wisdom unlocks the gates to joy. 

Who can cast a shadow when there is 



178 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

"A haze on the far horizon, 
An infinite tender sky, 
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, 
And the wild geese sailing high ; 

And all over upland and lowland 

The charm of the goldenrod — 
Some of us call it Autumn, 

And others call it God." 

As the night falls, the beauty lingers. Though as- 
sured yesterday that summer had taken her gentle pres- 
ence away, the evening was warm and fragrant. The 
children had gathered herb balls, twisting the stems and 
dried leaves to place among their linen, and the house was 
redolent with minty vapors, while through the open win- 
dow stole the breath of autumn, perfumed with calamus 
and the odor of ripening grasses. 

A mystic autumn night is such an opportunity for 
revelings! Let us call together the children, fling wide 
the doors, and, escaping from the familiar paths of the 
home inclosure, cross the lots to the wood and the walnut 
grove. 

How fast the shackles of convention fell from the 
limbs as we climbed the fences and hasted along in Indian 
file, the dullest alive in the freedom of rapid motion. 
The full moon looked over the eastern tree tops, with a 
ruddy face diffusing a pale light that did not penetrate 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 179 

the shaded places, and above, the stars hung like dia- 
mond lanterns in the arch of heaven. Turning from the 
grassy road into the thicket, a fusillade of fairy shot from 
the witch-hazel brush bombarded the advancing troop. A 
gray owl hooted derisively, and a sleepy crow made a 
cynical protest, while there was a flutter of heavy birds 
among the dry leaves of the oak, and a ghostly four- 
footed beast, gray and lithe, checked the happy shouts of 
the young folks as it slipped across the path silently out of 
sight, uncanny and weird, until a plaintive "meow" be- 
trayed the unrecognized family cat prowling for field 
mice. 

The opened consciousness sharpened in the culture of 
the garden awakened every child instinct to sights and 
sounds of the grove. Who will ever forget the foray 
among the walnuts and hickories, or the picture of the 
blazing bonfire, the sparks flying upward in jewels of 
light to vanish in the gloom intensified by the contrast of 
ruddy flames'? On the edge of the circle yellow pen- 
nants of the witch-hazel fluttered as if waved by the 
hands of gnomes, and the snapping of twigs and fall of 
nuts created a new world of sight and sound. 

At last, when the logs had burned low, the happy troop 
trailed back as they had come, the physical senses stimu- 
lated by the odors, the mysterious rustlings, the scented 
atmosphere, and the glamour of autumn veiled in the 



180 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

silver moonlight now illuminating the earth to the far 
horizon. The village streets were deserted, here and there 
a light glimmering among the trees; and the old gypsy 
spirit of pilgrims abroad in the House of the Open Door 
under the curtains of the star-gemmed sky possessed one 
and all with a feeling of unreality. 

But the day had not ended. Behind the hedge of our 
own garden a stout-hearted cricket was beating its drum, 
the windows were ablaze, and one left behind cried the 
news that the night-blooming cereus in the southwest 
nook by the porch, sheltered and discouraged the summer 
through, had at this late day opened its miracle of bloom. 

All fell upon their knees on the grass to look at the 
tropic flower without peer, virginal and lovely, gleaming 
in the light of many candles. Heaven had granted an- 
other rare surprise of beauty when nature by many signs 
had dropped her curtain on the pageant of blossoming 
plants. Under the warmth of the aftermath of summer 
it had come into its own, and lo ! as we looked, from the 
silent reaches of the darkness a large white moth came 
floating on wings of pale silver and green to touch the 
heart of the flower. 

In all creation is there a diviner miracle"? Who says 
that we have fallen on evil times? Who can have doubt 
in gardens'? The spirit of peace, of beauty, and of 
mystery is abroad in sunshine and in starlight, elevating 
the thoughts to nobler ideals. 



IN ELYSIAN FIELDS 181 

"A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
Rose plot, 

Fringed pool, 
Fern'd grot — 

The veriest school 

Of peace ; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not — 
Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool? 

Nay, but I have a sign ; 

'T is very sure God walks in mine." 

Remember this, ye of little faith, and be glad, for it is 
the law and the gospel of the poet. 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 

SOON after the equinox, the wild woods being ablaze 
with ripening leaves, we go miles to the north on a 
crooked river to spy out the shrubs that will bear trans- 
planting within our gates. The fruits and seeds are in 
winter dress, and the fine shapes of branches and twigs 
are apparent. What a fine hedge of witch-hazel would 
grow, if it would take kindly to a civilized neighborhood ! 
Its yellow pennants flutter gayly, and its popping fruits 
and grotesque bushes are decorations not to be despised. 

Chill weather conies early in the north woods of the 
river country. The frost sprite was abroad the night we 
slept before a fire of logs in the cabin. It had spun 
threads of silver across the water buckets at the well, and 
thrown a veil of sparkling velvet over the meadows. The 
woodbines draping dead trees were battle flags of burn- 
ing red, and the sumach was scarlet among weeds of 
yellows and bronze. The witch-hazel pennants were pale 
and frosted, hanging forlornly. 

In the hollows of the road thin ice crackled under foot, 
wild geese were flying southward, and the squirrels chat- 
tering of winter stores in the hickories. The gophers 

182 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 183 

frisked before us with cheeks pouched with nuts and corn, 
exciting the blue ja)'s that screamed their discontent in 
reply to crow philosophy cawed in the grove across the 
ravines. All nature was prophetic of winter, though 
autumn would linger yet a little longer. 

Our home garden, protected from north and west 
winds, still flaunts the latest blossoms of summer. But 
here it is autumn, forest and plain reminiscent of the 
changing year and the ebb and flow of life. Even the 
friends of childhood still living in their old homes in this 
out-of-the-way neighborhood repeat the thought that this 
familiar planet on which we dwell maybe has reached its 
November. 

An ancient road from a woodcutter's clearing twisted 
and turned among stumps and outcropping rocks, the gray 
bones of the hill ridge. To the fancy it played a game of 
hide and seek with some forest-born "Brushwood Boy." 
It descended into the valley to a glen that might have 
been the abiding haunt of gnomes, and then, with a short 
turn across a brook and over a rocky steep, it entered a 
sylvan glade where cardinal flowers showed red under a 
protection of hardy bracken, and near a shallow pool pros- 
pered a colony of fringed gentian, blue as if cut from the 
celestial curtains of the sky. 

Then the winding road turned its back on fairyland 
and clambered between bowlders to an open plateau 
and the mournful reminders of a deserted farm. The 



184 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

windows were shutterless, the doors of the tottering house 
unhinged. 

The glass panes reflected the light with an unmeaning 
stare, and, as the cloud shadows obscured the sun, myste- 
rious presences seemed to look forth and vanish in the 
vacant rooms beyond. The fitful breeze flapped the gar- 
den gate, rustling the tangle of forgotten rosebushes, and 
stirred the tall growth of asters as if a mysterious some- 
thing came along the weedy paths and passed on to the 
gloom of the forest road. 

A neglected garden is the best book on hardy flowers. 
Its record is written by time, for only the fittest to fight 
out a battle with dry seasons or wet, cold winters, hot 
summers, and voracious insects and usurping weeds live 
over a season. Here above the fence looked the coarse 
yellow marigold, the sweet Williams had established 
themselves in a community, and row upon row, all in the 
pride of vainglory, grew the self-sown cockscombs, claim- 
ing the right of numbers. 

Still triumphant amid the forlorn tangle of the deserted 
garden, cockscomb awaits in defiance the approach of win- 
ter. It holds its head high above its woody pedestal and 
looks across the vacant spaces where goldenrod and mari- 
gold once held sovereign sway. Gone are the flowery 
train. Cockscomb alone retains a vestige of the splendor 
of royal crimson. Though wounded by the midnight frost 
and sadly battered by the gales, it seems to proclaim: 




COURT OF THE SULTANA, OEXERALIFE PALACE, GRANADA, SPAIN 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 185 

"Manners maketh the man; behold my temper; I shall 
endure to the end." 

Cockscomb is a prolific producer in the economy of the 
natural world. It owns not a stingy fiber. From the ten 
thousand cells of its plumed florescence it brings to light 
as many brilliant black pearls, pearls more precious than 
those treasured in a reliquary, the sharito of the Buddhist. 
These never play false to the devout soul. They are in 
truth "breeding pearls," and if the dusky gems found in 
ashes of a consumed saint refuse to bear a life for the next 
generation by some fault of conscience of the devotee, 
the reliquary of the cockscomb ever keeps its promise. 

With the spring it gives birth to a jaunty, frilled flower 
top, a miracle of creation that steadfastly preaches to the 
listening world the philosophy of the "flower in the cran- 
nied wall" : 

"Could I know you all in all 
I should know what God and man is." 

Cockscomb sets no price in its riches of seed pearls. It 
scatters with lavish prodigality. With a shake of its 
head it lies down under the first snowdrift and lets the 
future take care of itself. Its short life presents the spec- 
tacle of duties done and the joy of inconsequence. Its 
folk are the bourgeoisie of the autumnal garden. They 
are conspicuous and assertive, and must be the observed 



186 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

of observers, whether ruddy or colorless, dwarfed or tall, 
slender or corpulent, according to individual traits. All, 
from the giant to the dwarf, are collectors of black 
pearls; all enjoy the air they breathe and add a quota to 
nature's great museum. 

While the curious west wind shakes the black pearls 
from the receptacles of the cockscomb, at the same time he 
tears snowy locks from the head of Madam Thistle, and 
Fairy Thistledown spreads its snowy parachute and sails 
away wherever fate may will. Madam Thistle is shut 
out from Eden. Across the fence, along the dusty road 
where the shallow earth barely veils the rock ridge, she 
must make the best of an existence on sufferance. But 
such is the paradox of life; bourgeois cockscomb is cher- 
ished in good society; aristocratic thistle receives scanty 
recognition. Pride and the consciousness of an ancient 
lineage afford her consolation. 

My Lady Thistle loves the appearance of luxury. 
Wherever fortune grants her a foothold she spreads out 
her skirts of foliage with careful art. Each leaf is per- 
fect with handsome curves and thorny spines guarding a 
luscious green surface. The stem might have been copied 
from the device of some clever engineer ; but truth puts it 
just the other way — the engineer studied nature's con- 
struction and borrowed wit from the plant stem. 

Most wonderful of all is the blossom that crowns my 
Lady Thistle. Set in a cup of green, protected and 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 187 

adorned with unmatchable art in foliage and coloring, is 
the cluster of purple flowerets. Time was when the bot- 
anists gave recognition of this perfection, and all the 
flower tribes of compositse were united under the name 
"Thistle family." But sentiment has vanished, and now 
we tack nomenclature to science. 

Thistle bloom gowned in Tyrian purple, with the rare 
perfume from Araby and nectar cells inviting the bees, 
gossamer-winged gnats, and butterflies, is the center of 
rustic festivities on a midsummer day. When the gay 
whirl of pleasure has spent its brief hour, the flowerets 
sleep for a night and wake with the next sunny dawn to 
shake out a mane of powdered locks and set sail a million 
winged arrows pointed for mischief. 

Then merrily soar the Thistledowns to plant the fields 
for the coming summer. The weed killer abroad with 
bonfire and hoe looks after them as if they were a flight 
of mischief-loving sprites bent on adventure. 

"Trifles light as air," he muses. "When the bread- 
makers and Beauty's children have gone to rest, these re- 
main — the trifles light as air. My Lady Thistle, I love 
you, just for your inconsequence. The world is peopled 
with sorrow makers, with hard workers and tramps and 
idlers. Nature gives you but one short year, a wondrous 
beauty, and a prickly sheath to keep lovers at a distance. 
For all the cruelty of circumstance, you seem to make the 
best of things. Yours is the light heart and the joy. 



188 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

Alone you are innocent ; with a following you would be a 
menace to society. For this I cast you upon the blazing 
pyre from which the smoke rises in thank offering for 
the blessings of autumn." 

Mints, calamus, herbs, roots, and pine cones brought 
from the hilltop made a fragrant smoke as the weed fire 
died to its embers. The weed killer and his company 
passed along on the road by which we had come, uproot- 
ing and looking for stranger plants waiting to make in- 
roads on the next year's crops. The blackberry tangles, a 
place of joy to flower lovers, knew no mercy, because 
these are the hosts of the wheat rusts. 

A chill blast coming like a mighty sign from the north, 
a flurry of snowflakes from the clouds, bade us hasten on 
to the lowlands, where the amber of a declining sun 
painted a land in which it seemed ever afternoon. Here 
the farmers were weed burning too, and neat housewives 
cleaning gardens. It was a weedy paradise on either side 
of the road, as if human foresight had been bent upon 
affairs at home, forgetting that mischief-makers were 
gathering burs in the public highway to make ready for an 
onslaught of mischief. 

How scornfully we speak of those who vegetate ! Thus 
are we guilty of flippancy of thought and speech. Judg- 
ment and reason are lacking when we overlook the power 
of the creatures of vegetation. We imagine that they are 
tied to the earth, prisoners of circumstance. Far from it. 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 189 

This notion is a pleasant fiction. The botanist does not 
romance when he says that they have appropriated vices 
as well as virtues; that among them are parasites and 
thieves; that saints and martyrs of the wronged and help- 
less of the plant world cry out for mercy, and should have 
a reward from the accounts written down in the records 
kept by the guardian angels of all who suffer without 
reason. 

Naughty Tommy and silly Jenny making mud pies on 
the edge of the prairie may tell a thing or two from the 
tragic histories of creatures that vegetate. They know 
that a tribe of plantain crept across the front yard, 
crushed humbler plants out of existence, and kept incar- 
cerated within a paling fence until the intruders were 
uprooted. 

Have they not heard of the crimes of wheat rust, of en- 
croaching tares and Canada thistles'? Have they not 
wept over the ban against the starry blossoms that make 
the daisy chains'? And now, as they peep above the tall 
grass, another army of tramps rushes down the dusty 
road, tumbling before the Indian summer breeze, joying 
in its balmy breath, and paying toll to all the roadside 
fertility by showering crops of seed for next year's har- 
vest — tramps indeed more dangerous than any from the 
hosts of the unwashed from the London slums. 

"Russian thistle out for mischief," said the farmer, 
stopping his team. "This is the first bunch of the pest 



igo THE JOY OF GARDENS 

that has tumbled into this county. When last heard from 
it had taken root just the other side of the line. Here, 
you children, help me gather up the stuff. We'll go back 
to the crossroads in our hunt and make a bonfire. Maybe 
I can find a yellow pippin for each of you. This is worse 
than any tramp that follows the railroad. One thing we 
can say for it is that it pays first and eats last. But I 
have known other villains to spend less money to carry 
out a bigger robbery." 

Russian thistle thieves from the farmer, and keeps busy 
sending out scouts to do mischief to its neighbors. It 
sucks the life out of the soil, wearing its best clothes while 
it does it. In the spring it pushes a pretty green head out 
of the ground, blushes pale pink, turns crimson, and looks 
so innocent that you hate to pull it up. Its beauty para- 
lyzes the weed killer. All summer long its good looks 
save it from suspicion. No one remembers that it is the 
dreaded thistle. 

When autumn comes, it puts on a sober brown veil ; it 
dries to a lacy brown, bushy ball, and looks more harmless 
than ever. It hugs millions of seeds in its pouches. And, 
as if dead to harm, one fine morning lets loose and sails 
away, no doubt laughing in its vegetable heart at the 
trick it played. Now it shall make merry after a fashion 
of its own. 

Its hour has come for traveling; it is so light that the 
wind hurls it for miles, so compact that it fails to catch 



ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 191 

securely among other weeds. It blows about until cov- 
ered by snow or caught in the ice; but meanwhile it has 
showered evil seeds far and wide, and accomplished its 
mission. 

"Tumbleweeds remind me of the society tramp," re- 
marked the cynic who had come along under his umbrella. 
"They feed off the property of the industrious. The 
tumbleweeds usurp the fields of the useful, they deceive 
the unwary by making a show of good clothes and im- 
pudent manners, they are careless of the rights of others, 
they abhor honest labor, and are the epitome of selfishness. 
'Let me live, and the rest of the world go hang,' they cry. 
To the fire with them, good farmer." 

While tumbleweed has foolishly bounded along the 
highroad, sowing disorder and discontent, under the 
shadows of the hedges Jenny notes here and there a flower 
favorite or humble shrub hanging its wilted head. 

Frost has not sent the gentian to rest, and the starry 
aster bears signs of good health. Why the discourage- 
ment of the others'? She searches farther, and nothing 
alarming meets the eye other than a delicate little vine 
hung with clusters of pearly berries. 

"Dodder," she cries with disgust. "Come, Tommy, see 
the horrid thing squeezing the life out of this pretty 
flower." 

It is too late to tear the offending parasite from its 
hold; the mischief is done, but she may save the plants of 



192 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

next year by gathering the dodder berries and casting 
them into the fire with the tumbleweed. It, too, bears the 
garb of innocence, appearing an inoffensive, slender vine 
curling affectionately about a flower stem. Like the Rus- 
sian thistle, dodder belongs to the rank and file of Satan's 
great army of evildoers. 

"Yes, dodder is another society parasite," mused the 
cynic, rubbing his spectacles. "I know the type well. 
Under the guise of gentleness it sneaks into your privacy, 
invades your secret thoughts, feeds on your comforts and 
hospitality, and, while appearing well before the world of 
fashion, it gives not a whit for its entertainment or its 
living. The dodder parasites are among the most hateful 
things of society. They are like leeches, crying 'More, 
more,' and when they have worn you out, wasted your 
substance, they fling you aside and take up with your 
enemy, if he happen to have comforts worth pursuit. 
Root out the dodder, children; crush it under your heel. 
The woods and the world are full of dodder parasites." 



OF DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 

"TT ERE hath been dawning another blue day" — the 
JL 1 blue day beloved by Ruskin, when the air is still. 
Not a leaf stirs on the aspens waiting breathlessly ever to 
catch the breeze. The smoke from the chimneys of a 
thousand household hearths curls upward in misty spirals 
higher and higher, like incense rising from altars to reach 
the far heavens. 

Who would stay within doors'? Not a book on the 
shelves or a painting in the galleries colors pictures of 
dreams to match the landscape of garden and roads and 
hills far away. The clear air spurs the hand to make 
things fairer, and the passion for pruning, weeding, and 
planning for richer harvests fills the morning hours. We 
are hungry for conquest, all aglow to collect what re- 
mains in the hedgerows and has stayed to beautify the 
plantations. 

Some one whispered that the orphan school was to pass 
this way for their monthly fete in the grove. Ought they 
not to have more than bread for their outing 1 ? Every 
flower in blossom and in bud must be clipped and tied 
into neat little posies, to make gay with color and sweet- 
ness. There is a shy kinship of flowers and children about 

193 



194 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

which we know so little, since we have forgotten the 
"glories whence we came." 

The message sent to the door bespoke plain food. Why 
not cake? Have the good people ever thought that the 
repressed little bodies clad in subduing gingham might 
hunger for flowers to feed their souls? It was my gentle 
neighbor who wound the message about a late-blooming 
Japan lily — "Hast thou two loaves of bread? Then sell 
one to buy flowers of the narcissus, for though the bread 
will nourish thy body, the flowers will strengthen thy 
soul." 

Mohammed said it long ago, repeating a message from 
the Infinite. The mission of loveliness created in the 
Garden of Eden has fed the souls of poets and prophets 
and those who thirsted by the wayside. What has pre- 
served the ideal of beauty like the rose, of purity like the 
lily, of sweetness like the violet, of grace like that of the 
primrose? 

The church clock struck nine as the demure procession 
came in sight under the arching trees. A golden shower 
of tinted maple leaves floated down upon the uncovered 
heads of little boys and girls, walking two by two. The 
leaders stopped as they reached the gate, as if dazzled by 
the baskets of bloom, and stepped back abashed at the 
offering of flowers. Then, with the quick acceptance of 
blessings natural to hopeful childhood, both hands soon 
reached out, and eyes shone on the scarlet of geranium, 






DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 195 

the blue of ageratum and forget-me-not, the white of cos- 
mos and daisy. 

Now they have gone their way to the pine grove, little 
human flowers escaped from gardens, we take up our task 
again, wondering why more human hearts do not grasp 
the larger gardening in life. What nobler work for the 
isolated on farms who complain of loneliness than that 
of transplanting children from asylums in the city to 
country homes ! The childless man and wife could gather 
a company of ten about them, and know loneliness never 
again. The battle with weeds of character in the adopted 
plants is not so desperate as the battle often is with self 
and discontent. And by and by the harvest comes, when 
the boys and girls of a few years' culture and pruning go 
elsewhere to make other gardens and to call their guar- 
dians blessed. 

Life would be a fairer fabric if we could cut away 
barren stalks and dried leaves, and gather up the waste of 
a season ready for the burning. We never seem to know 
when to let go, and keep out half-dead begonias and pot- 
ted herbs to deface the order of the front windows. It 
takes courage to pull up a sickly rosebush or chop out a 
lilac that has harbored molds for years. We know it 
ought to be done, and do we do it as many times as we 
should? 

Moralizing is inspired by fall weather. When the 
cleaning spell is upon me not a corner of the fence escapes, 



196 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

not an out-of-the-way jut in the wall which might shelter 
a nesting caterpillar or insect snuggling in comfort for the 
winter. 

The world is suspicious of the man who willfully sets 
foot upon a worm, nor would count him among the most 
desired of friends. There are times, however, when a 
neighbor encroaches on his neighbor's property, and the 
judge must decide which is the fittest to survive. Far be 
it from us to callous our sentimental tenderness for the 
smallest of living things. 

At night, when the sun is down, the flowery world is 
a different place from that we know by day. The colony 
of toads which has been protected for the sake of their 
fondness for insects preying on plants, goes awalking in 
the dusk. They are a friendly company. They enjoy 
human society, though the human giant must look colos- 
sal to their bright eyes. 

When any one takes a book in the late afternoon and 
rests in a big chair near the nasturtiums, hop-hop down 
the path come two, three, or more toads to sit in an 
admiring circle. Company manners do not interfere 
with business, for a lightning-motioned tongue darts 
rapidly as Mr. Toad takes the good of insect life coming 
his way. 

The cool of the evening is an ever-returning reminder 
of how fair the world can be, and how at peace. The 
flowers are grateful for the shadows and the dew, lifting 



DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 197 

their tired heads eagerly. The Wordsworthian creed is 
truest at that hour : 

"To her fair works did nature link 
The human soul that through me ran," 

and no scoffer alive but, feeling the gracious mood of 
poet and the charm of eventide, would say : 

"Through primrose tufts in that green bower 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
And 't is my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes." 

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn," the dewy 
evening — these are the divine hours. All things seemed 
to have declared a truce between battles. By the very 
nature of the earthly scheme, the struggle for existence is 
a battlefield in which the fight is a furious one. The 
Happy Valley of Rasselas has never been found but in 
dreams. 

The free-lance career of toads upon insects is matched 
by the conduct of the creeping lizards domesticated in the 
rock pile. They are the scourge of creepers and winged in 
their domain. Innocent sunning at midday is only a ruse. 
They are spying out the playgrounds of flies and ants. 

The spiders are bandits of the first order. It would 
take a lifetime to cultivate an intimacy with the tribes at 



198 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

war on winged creatures and at sword's point with each 
other. From the big meadow spider with yellow stripes 
to the uncanny little red spider the size of a pin point in- 
festing the roses, there are a score of families terrible to 
think of, interesting to meet. 

The meadow spider, harmless to gardeners, is a friendly 
dame. We say dame, because it is she who does the spin- 
ning. Mr. Meadow Spider is a stranger, as spider lore 
has not gone very far among us. Mrs. Meadow Spider, 
or her daughter, has come year after year. It may be con- 
ceit on our part, or plain courage on hers, which permits 
us to imagine that she knows us. She sits very still in the 
midst of her silken-thread palace swung from the chrys- 
anthemums to the barberries, and lets us look at her 
with a reading glass and comment on her surroundings. 

She is as indifferent to manners as the toads and the 
lizards. If we come at the appointed hour she traps care- 
less rainbow flies, binds them, and devours them before 
our eyes. With every appearance of one contemplating 
nature for the love of its beauty, she is cruel and cunning 
— only waiting her chance to take advantage of her 
victim. 

I have observed, against my will, that there is an iron 
hand in the velvet glove of the morning-glory. When 
rich odors fail toward September, the tuberose sends up its 
spikes of richly perfumed blossoms to make fragrant the 
night. The tuberoses are the successors of a clump of 



DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 199 

dwarf white phlox which is through blooming about tube- 
rose season. In the earlier summer the phlox make a 
pretty green tangle above the tuberose plants, each giving 
and taking amiably. 

The morning-glories from seeds that lay dormant until 
late escaped notice while the phlox spread their stars, but 
hardly had the tuberose spikes set to growing before the 
morning-glory tendrils found them out and set forth to 
climb. Round and round twined the ambitious vine, em- 
bracing its host with such vigor that one day the tragedy 
was discovered. The heads of tuberose buds hung 
withered, choked to death by the vine which triumphantly 
swung bells of crystal and crimson above the tombs of 
those it had slain. 

There is a cherished waxen asclepias, as fragrant as the 
tuberose, which catches the trunks of moths and butter- 
flies and hangs them by the head when they come for nec- 
tar and honey. Often on a summer morning the ground 
beneath the plant is a battlefield strewn with the bodies 
of wretched insects torn to pieces to escape the trap of the 
asclepias. Should we uproot it and fling it to the winds'? 

Now and then a field dodder reaches its white tendrils 
through the fence or sets a foothold somewhere in the 
shrubbery. This is a parasite of the first order in 
crime. It throttles its victim, feeds on its life-blood, and 
dresses gayly, affecting the thread-lace airs to conceal 
its depravity. 



200 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

If it were not for their flowery looks, who would toler- 
ate even the catchfly, trimming its gummy stems to trap 
feeble ants; or the carnivorous Venus' flytrap, or the 
pitcher-plant holding a deadly drink*? How well these 
fit Tennyson's "Nature red in tooth and claw." 

Others there are, crowding to the wall weaker plants, 
through usurping arrogance. We can understand why the 
dandelion, camomile, and roadside weeds must push and 
hang on for dear life if they would survive, but why 
plants in a garden should pursue a selfish policy is not to 
be understood. In cleaning time those who give an inch 
and take an ell are trimmed back. The blue-eyed forget- 
me-nots, the May pinks, and sweet Williams are energetic 
spreaders. Dividing plants and giving away roots does 
not lessen their numbers ; they are up and doing early and 
late. 

Tragedy paints the darker shadows in the pictures of 
life. We cannot understand, and yet above it all is the 
unquenchable faith that "all 's right with the world." 
Though Tennyson sang sadly of nature's cruelty, its 
gloom, hiding the loss of many lives, is dispelled by the 
larger trust. We need but look on the brighter side and 
beyond. 

"From belt to belt of crimson seas, 
O'er leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder Orient star 
A hundred spirits whisper peace." 



DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 201 

The poets loved gardens. If they have become kin to 
our sympathy they walk with us in the flowery ways — the 
gallant, gentle spirit Edmund Spenser, the myriad- 
minded Shakspere, gay Robert Herrick, even sober 
Milton and the magister Amadeus Wolfgang von 
Goethe. 

Let memories of them assemble as we gather the herbs, 
the dried plants, and grasses raked from the paths and 
beds to make a sacrificial fire to the fall of the year. The 
fragrant smoke ascends in the mellowed sunlight, shaping 
to the figure of an Aladdin's genie. Hail to the past of 
those who made gardens ! All hail to every flower lover 
in the land! We join our voices to those who have sung 
their praises since time began. 

Cast sweet incense in the flames with gum of myrrh to 
recall the days when shepherds watched their flocks by 
night and wise men walked the flowery plains, following a 
star in the east. 

Bring hither bunches of moly and rue, of sweet basil 
and thyme, of balm of Gilead, cedar of Lebanon, and 
wreaths of bay. Let the smoke rise higher and higher, 
and evoke the days of the ceremonial of Solomon's 
temple, of the Golden Age of Greece. 

Then break and scatter the log of driftwood, and 
shatter the recollections of other lands and scenes woven 
in the wanderings of a lifetime. Here to the nostrils 
comes the scent of salt seas, of rolling breakers on a 



202 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

northern shore, of the cots under the hill and peat smoke 
dissolving in the blue of Irish skies at even. Who with 
a drop of Celtic blood in his veins will forget its pungent 
odors? Who that has once looked for fairies in the peat 
fire will lose his gift of seeing far*? 

The fire has burned low — the dead flowers have van- 
ished — ashes to ashes. It is night, and the lingering 
cuckoo is calling from the distance. The doves have gone 
to rest, the new moon hangs a silver horn beneath the 
evening star, and Mercury holds his torch just above the 
western hills. In another moment he will have wheeled 
onward. 

Come within and close the door. The wind has risen, 
and the same blast that beats at the unlatched gate is toss- 
ing the ships far out at sea and beating incessantly on 
the shores. Home-faring hearts treasuring happy memo- 
ries are best. 

Light the lamp and look what the mail has brought in 
a casket of palms and ferns. It is the promise of the 
future. These dreams of daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and 
lilies will not fade as illusions. Hidden deep in the 
bulbs lie the pledges of another life. Hope wings its 
way, and to-morrow we '11 do the planting. 



IN GOD'S ACRE 

I LIKE to lean over the garden fence and look down 
the long road losing itself in the violet mists of an 
autumn afternoon. The whole world becomes a garden 
in St. Martin's summer, and the idle road lazily taking its 
course between bending elms and maples bearing the tat- 
tered banners of red and gold of October foliage leads on 
and on to dusky tangles where lingering blue gentians still 
look to heaven with the eyes of faith, and to forests where 
the woodbine drapes its crimson wreaths, and on and on, 
no one knows where. The dream escapes us, following 
the vision ever going on and on. 

What will be our mental state, I wonder, when we 
have found out all the secrets of nature. Knowing as we 
do the cantankerous make-up of man and his unreliabil- 
ity, why should we want to manage the weather, and to 
discover the secrets of the machinery of the solar system*? 
My neighbors have prayed for rain, but I do not want it, 
regarding every fair day of autumn as so much gold in the 
treasury of esthetic pleasure. Suppose it should rain and 
rain, from the equinox to the solstice, what a sodden place 
would be the gallery of recollections for that season, and 

203 



204 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

when should we have had time to do our bulb planting or 
leaf burning? 

For man to have a share in the running of the planets 
would be dangerous, we may be sure. The chariot of the 
sun would whirl off in a tangent, the trade winds blow 
awry, and two or three autocrats of a decade confuse nat- 
ural events for centuries. The rest of us poor mortals, 
thankful for the vagaries of weather, under wiser powers 
than we wot of, would have more than our share of 
suffering. 

Still looking down the long road which has crossed the 
river beyond the highest hill, and then, as we learned on 
the nutting tramp, turns west and makes a bee line di- 
rectly to the courts about the setting sun, we give thanks 
that we may not know all things. Could we foresee the 
winter and the spring we should be deprived of the bliss 
of expectation and the zest of ups and downs whose con- 
trasts make the variety of life. 

We should lose the little surprises, knowing all the 
events that matter to no one but ourselves — the year of 
bloom of the wild crab apple, the occasional return of 
an oriole to nest in the cherry tree, the autumnal after- 
math of a blossoming wild rose, and November flowers 
on the quince and the blackberry. These and, yes, the 
accidental meeting of friends estranged, and the coming 
of one new and congenial with an affinity of tastes. So 
for our part we prefer to look down the long road 



IN GOD'S ACRE 205 

vanishing in the mists, burnishing the mirror of hope for 
beauty and good which we cannot see as yet. 

A fickle breeze rustling the bronzed foliage of a clump 
of oaks creeps groundward and blows the dried leaves to 
play in circling whirlwinds. The flock of sparrows that 
have been holding excited congress for some days past, 
whether to be or not to be of the migrants like other birds, 
have grown sportive in the warm air, and fly low in the 
mysterious manner betokening a change in the weather. 

The primeval stir in my own veins that urges me to 
break down the bars and walk over the hills and far 
afield, to follow the light of the gypsy-star, is akin to the 
sparrow restlessness which they cannot forget. It is so 
long ago since any of their ancestry have taken the south- 
ward journey that the instinct has become but an echo 
in the blood which throbs as the sun goes south and fore- 
warnings of winter appear. And then the sparrow flies 
low among the leaves on the ground while the human, 
harking to the same feeling, looks down the long road, 
takes tramps by starlight, or plays a Chopin prelude in 
the dusk of the gloaming, and wonders at his restlessness. 

All Saints' Day has stolen upon us unawares; the 
clouds betokened the cold November rain, and while we 
searched the garden for the lingering flowers to deck the 
graves according to the sweet old German custom, more 
lifted their pretty heads than we had believed escaped the 
continued succession of chilly nights. 



206 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

There was an abundant nosegay ready for our hands. 
The last warm-hued asters, the mignonette, like a fragile 
gentleman growing strong in the face of adversity, as fra- 
grant as in summer; the graceful daisy-eyed cosmos; the 
scented nicotina, the ruddy marigolds, and, shyly lying 
close to the ground, the pansies still blooming cheerily. 
The rose geraniums which usually blacken before the 
frost gave sweet-smelling branches, owing to our fore- 
thought in covering them, and the salvia had fringed 
sprays of red to add to our treasures. 

Our little cemetery has been cleared of its unsightly 
monuments, and the tablets are hidden, sunken in the sod 
or hidden in shrubbery. It is God's Acre, where the 
weary are at rest and sleep close to nature's heart, while 
the souls are soaring on and on — earth's fretful turmoil 
over, and the earthly labors done — to another life. 

The fall of the leaf and the fall of the year have no 
sadness for the brotherhood of gardeners. The awaken- 
ing of spring, the bursting of bud and the unfolding of 
leaf, the glory of the flower and the ripening of fruit 
with the perfection of seedtime and harvest — that is all 
of life. Our own cycle of infancy, youth, maturity, and 
age is just like it — the year but a little longer, the vicissi- 
tudes of weather and of cultivators and pests only another 
kind; and when the winter of life comes to us, as it does 
to all, we too, like the lily of the field, may lie down 
under the sod to pleasant dreams and a resurrection. 



IN GOD'S ACRE 207 

The flower chaplets of All Souls' Day are emblems of 
the wreaths of love and grateful recollections that ascend 
invisible to the spirits of the dear ones gone before, who 
may return on this day of days and join the communion 
of saints. I cannot feel that they have left us, nor can 
any who have tasted the joy of gardens believe that with 
winter the flowers lie dead. They gave us a brief vision 
of their beauty materialized, and then vanished to bloom 
in other spheres. 

The last leaves are floating gently in the still calm 
air, a golden vapor that spread abroad when the clouds 
blew to the north at noon. St. Martin has returned to 
walk in the autumn fields, and the piles of burning leaves 
appear on every side. The slender columns of smoke, 
blue as if snatched from the skies, arise as if from a thou- 
sand altars of autumn to the feasts of All Souls and All 
Saints. 

How shortsighted is the man who believes that the fall 
of the year, and the fall of the leaf, end all. Every 
clump of grass, the humblest weed, refutes such heresy 
to the divine plan. Who that has worked in gardens 
could cherish the thought for an instant 1 ? The scattered 
rose to-day promises fairer beauty to-morrow, if the 
worker has done his part. No melancholy hours are in 
store, unless weeds and neglect have worn out the cour- 
age of the plants, and they lie withered and dead, with 
no shred of hope to bind them to to-morrow. 



208 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

This is the punishment of the planter of short-lived 
annuals. He is the man who has made friends for an 
hour's entertainment, not for a lifetime; for, strange to 
say, and it always comes to us as a surprise when we dis- 
cover nature inconsistent, flowers in a garden resemble 
the people in a village. 

If we have chosen from the gentle and the gay, the 
sturdy and the arrogant, the company will be a varied 
one; the weak will brace themselves against the strong, 
the graces of one will temper the boldness of the other, 
and, after storms have passed, some will have weathered 
them and remain. The year will never be barren of 
beauty, as the hearth will never be vacant of friends, if 
they have been selected with wisdom. 

Turn from dreams to reality. What has been your 
forethought of the morrow and the spring 4 ? Has life 
flitted away while you were looking down the long road 
to fairy gold at the foot of the rainbow or have you alter- 
nated work and play"? 

In the past of planting time a wisdom, looking ahead 
to faith and hope, thought of November while it was 
May. Then were set the shrubs of character which 
promised cheer for the seasons as they passed — unfolding 
of leaf in spring, blossoms in June, and joy of exuberant 
growing in midsummer. Now the snowberries are hang- 
ing like pearls against the bronzed leaves, the fringes of 
baroerries trim the thorny branches with coral, the orange 



IN GOD'S ACRE 209 

of rose hips glows like topaz in the shadowy depths near 
the ground. The switches of the Siberian dogwood show 
the warm blood coursing with the sap, and the shrub 
world has no disappointments in autumn. 

Through the ages since long ago the hand of destiny 
has been weaving a fabric reflecting the ebb and flow of 
the tide of life. It is a richly hued tapestry with a splen- 
dor of lights made brilliant in contrast to dull shadows, 
and from beginning to end, through them all, runs a 
sunny thread ever leading toward dreams of future 
unfolding. 

The design has never approached completeness. We 
may turn the leaves of history, follow its pageants of 
glory, its masques of comedy, its interludes of tragedy, 
and the strand of hope weaves on and on, unraveled and 
unbroken in sunny luster; and as we look beyond to-day 
we watch it dipping below the horizon of to-morrow, 
whither the imagination takes courage to cling to its 
certainty. 

This sun ray penetrates the clouds of an unpromising 
spring and burnishes the gold of a fruitful summer. 
Now, as winter is at hand, it shines again in St. Mar- 
tin's weather, and if to-night a prophetic snow cloud 
throws a purple bar across the west, if dawn is gray and 
chill, be sure that the torch of hope is flashing out some- 
where, and if we were watching between the hours we 
would catch a glimpse of its light. All this is visible in 



210 THE JOY OF GARDENS 

the skies above the garden ; and this we know, if we have 
kept step with a pilgrim's progress, that hope has never 
flitted out of reckoning. 

The sun has dropped behind the distant hill where 
eternal fires seem to blaze against the sky behind the 
cypresses in God's Acre. A glory not of earth reflects 
from the church spire, "pointing to heaven like a finger 
in the sky," teaching of faith in everlasting good. The 
fall anemone, opening its white petals in the dried grass 
along the road, carries the message from paradise to 
earth. 

Turn your back on the winding road, you of little 
faith. Plant to-day, that in spring you may have purest 
joy. The garden awaits the beginning of a newer and 
more joyous season. The work of one year has rounded 
through a cycle of seedtime and harvest. Turn the 
brown earth with industry, and deep in the heart of 
nature plant the modest crocus, the daffodil, the lily of 
Easter, the tulip with her chalice for heavenly vintage; 
and when the snows of winter retreat before the return- 
ing spring, make festival in the garden and wreathe its 
altars with garlands, for the resurrection of life is at 
hand, and nature is true to the heart that loves her. 

THE END 



APPENDIX 

An All-the-year Garden 

A GARDEN of persistent perennials may be so 
planted that it will result in bloom and color the 
year round. The plants may be chosen to produce a 
succession of flowers until late in the winter, and some 
of the evergreen varieties will put forth shy pansies, 
violets, or Christmas roses (hellebon/s), under the shelter 
of dry shrubbery, when snow lies on the ground. 

When chosen with the color idea in mind the fruits 
and bark of certain kinds of shrubbery exhibit distinct 
shades of red, green, brown, and gray, becoming more 
attractive as winter turns toward spring. The groups of 
fruiting shrubs with rose hips, snowberries, bush cran- 
berries, wahoo, hops, or dark berries are pleasing in the 
gloomiest weather. 

It is best to begin an "all-the-year" garden on a small 
scale, adding desirable plants as they are discovered. If 
the space is limited, each group of perennials must con- 
tribute its share of color. The taller plants should be at 
the back and those but a few inches high in front. When 

211 



212 APPENDIX 

the plan is arranged the gardener will find it profitable 
to make out a calendar of the appearance of blossoms; 
that is, the earliest to appear, and in their turn the others 
as they are due, so that there may be no period when the 
beds are without color, from the peeping of the first snow- 
drops to the appearance of the latest hardy asters or 
Japanese anemones. 

As soil, moisture, sunshine, and exposure influence 
plants, forcing or retarding them, every garden must be 
planted to meet its own conditions, or the perfect garden 
of one location may be a failure at another. Borders and 
beds should also admit the weeder and flower gatherer. 
It is not well to have too wide a bed, as that necessitates 
stepping in among the plants. 

In the accompanying charts the intention has been to 
guide the inexperienced gardener. There are many more 
valuable perennials than those named, but those chosen 
have been taken because of their reliability, color, and 
their ability to grow in proximity to other plants. Hap- 
hazard planting is as disastrous as inviting a mixed com- 
pany of guests; the ambitions of one plant may put. 
another in the background, and the greediness of one 
crowd another out. Certain plants grow amiably side 
by side, and these should be placed in companionship. 

As a rule all the plants named will thrive in the 
northern middle latitudes. An effort has been made to 
omit the delicate and the unusual. The magnolia and 



APPENDIX 



213 



the jasmine, which do well in the South, will not survive 
the northern winter, and while it is possible occasionally 
to find a southern species in the North, its existence is 
by chance. 

Each vicinity has species thriving well under the con- 
ditions peculiar to it. Thus a garden maker in Denver, 
Minneapolis, Chicago, Pittsburg, or anywhere else, if he 
be wise, will study the gardens about him, and first of all 
buy the tested products of home seedsmen and home 
nurseries. Later he may experiment. 

PERENNIALS FOR THE SPRING 



Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Yellow 


Cloth of Gold 


Crocus Susi- 
anus 


Lowly 


Various 


Spring crocus 


Crocus vernus 




White 


Giant snow- 


Galanthus El- 






drop 


wesii 




Blue 


Glory of the 


Chionodoxa 






snow 


Luciliae 




White 


Siberian squill 


Scilla Sibirica 




Sky blue 


Phlox 


Divaricata 
(Canadensis) 




White 


White rock 
cress 


Arabis albida 




Various 


Dutch hya- 


Hyacinthus ori- 






cinth 


entalis 




Various 


Primrose 


Primula Sie- 
boldi 




Various 


Tulip 


Tulipa Due van 
Thol 


Medium 


Pink and 


English daisy 


Bellis perennis 


Lowly 


white 









214 



APPENDIX 



PERENNIALS FOR THE SPRING— Continued 



Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Yellow red 


Columbine 


Aquilegia 
clirysantha 


Medium 


White 


Lily of the val- 


Convallaria 


Lowly 




ley 


majalis 




White 


Poet's narcis- 


Narcissus po- 


Medium 




sus 


eticus 




Various 


Alpine poppy 


Papaver alpi- 
num 




Yellow 


Star daffodil 


Narcissus in- 
comparabilis 




Yellow 


Jonquil 


Narcissus Jon- 
quilla 




Various 


Peony 


Pseonia offici- 
nalis 


Higher 


Bright red 


Late tulip 


Tulipa Gesne- 
riana 




Deep pink 


Grass pink 


Dianthus plu- 
marius 




Rose 


Bleeding heart 


Dicentra spec- 

tabilis 




Lavender 


Fleur-de-lis 


Iris Germanica 




Deep violet 


Turkey flag 


Iris pallida 




Blue 


Forget-me-not 


Myosotis 




White 


St. Bruno's 
lily 


Anthericum 




White 


Bedding pansy 


Viola cornuta 






PERENNIALS FOR THE SUMMER 


Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Golden yellow 


Alyssum 


Saxatile com- 
pactum 


Lowly 


Green 


Old-man 


Artemisia 


Medium 


Dark blue 


Asters 


Grandiflorus 




Blue and white 


Canterbury 


Campanula me- 






bells 


dium 







APPENDIX 




PERENNIALS FOR THE SUMMER— Co 


ntinued 


Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Sky blue 


Larkspur 


Delphinium bel- 
ladonna 


Higher 


Lemon yellow 


Shasta daisy 


California daisy 




Pure white 


Shasta daisy 


Shasta im- 
proved 




Blood red 


Hardy pink 


Dianthus Napo- 
leon III 


Lowly 


Varied 


Foxglove 


Digitalis glpx- 
iniseflora 


Higher 


Purple 


Giant cone 


Echinacea pur- 






flower 


purea 




White and li- 


Day lily 


Funkia subcor- 


Medium 


lac 




data 




Orange red 


Blanket flower 


Gaillardia 


Higher 


Deep golden 


Tickseed 


Coreopsis lan- 
ceolata 




White 


Baby's breath 


Gypsophila 




Orange 


Sunflower 


Scaber major 


Tall 


Yellow 


Yellow day lily 


Hemerocallis 


Medium 


Rosy red 


Mallow 


Hibiscus 


Tall 


Various 


Hollyhocks 


Althaea rosea 


Tall 


Yellow 


St. John's wort 


Hypericum 
Moserianum 




Rose color 


Gloxinia 


Incarvillea 
grandiflora 


Medium 


White 


Hardy pea 


Lathyrus lati- 
folius albus 




Blue 


Lupine 


Lupinus poly- 
phyllus 




Rosy purple 


Blazing star 


Liatris 


Higher 


Fiery scarlet 


Cardinal flower 


Lobelia cardi- 
nalis 


Medium 


Blue 


Lavender 


Lavandula vera 




Orange scarlet 


Campion 


Lychnis 




Various 


Oriental poppy 


Papaver 





21 



2l6 



APPENDIX 



PERENNIALS FOR THE SUMMER— Continued 



Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Various 


Hardy phlox 


Phlox suffruti- 
cosa 


Higher 


Crimson 


Giant daisy 


Pyrethrum 


Higher 


Blue and lilac 


Mourning 


Scabiosa atro- 


Medium 




bride 


purpurea 




Silvery white 


Meadowsweet 


Spirea Aruncus 
KneifR 




Blue 


Spiderwort 


Tradescantia 




Mixed 


Sweet William 


Dianthus bar- 








batus 


Higher 


Orange scarlet 


Torch lily 


Tritoma 




Pure white 


Adam's needle 


Yucca filamen- 
tosa 


Tall 


Blue 


Knapweed 


Centaurea 


Medium 


Bright red 


Bee balm 


Monarda 
didyma 


Medium 


Rose or red 


Beard tongue 


Pentstemon 


Medium 


PERENNIALS FOR THE AUTUMN 


Color 


Common Name 


Botanical Name 


Height 


Golden yellow 


Goldenrod 


Solidago 


Tall 


Yellow 


Golden glow 


Rudbeckia 




Yellow 


Sunflower 


Helianthus an- 
nuus 


Tall 


Yellow 


Sneezewort 


Achillea ptar- 
mica 




Purple 


Joe-pyeweed 


Eupatorium 
purpureum 




Lilac and white 


Michaelmas 
daisy 


Hardy asters 




Purple blue 


Monkshood 


Aconitum au- 
tumnale 




White 


Chrysanthe- 
mum 


Pompons 


Medium 


Yellow 


Evening prim- 


Oenothera 


Medium 




rose 


glauca 





APPENDIX 217 

SHRUBS FOR SUMMER BLOOM AND WINTER COLOR 

Height 
Time Common Name Botanical Name Color Feet 

April Golden bell Forsythia yellow 8 

Spiraea Thunbergii . .white 4-6 

May Japanese quince Cydonia Japonica . . ..scarlet 3-6 

Flowering almond . ..Amygdalus nana ....pink 5 

Red-fruited elder . . . Sambucus pubens . . . .white 10 

Tartarian honeysuckle Lonicera Tartarica ..pink or white ... 2-8 

Common lilac Syringa vulgaris ....purple or white.. 10 

Double-flowering 

plum pink 8 

June European privet Ligustrum vulgare ..white (black ber- 
ries) 10 

Old blush rose 1 flesh pink 6 

Sweetbrier Rosa rubiginosa pink 4 

Hybrid perpetual 
rose red, white or pink. 2-3 

Snowball Viburnum sterilis ..white 10 

Snowberry Symphoricarpus race- 

mosus pink 5 

Sweet-scented shrub.. Calycanthus dark red 6 

Bridal wreath Spiraea hypericifolia. .white 6 

Golden spirea Spiraea aurea white 8 

Wahoo or burning Euonymus atropur- 
bush pureus purple 15 

Staghorn sumac Rhus typhina greenish yellow ..20 

Mock orange Philadelphus or sy- 
ringa white 8 

Tamarisk Tamarix pink 5 

Early white vibur- 
num Viburnum lantana . . .white 8 

Weigelas Weigelia pink 6 

Golden flowering 
currant Ribes aureum yellow 8 

Japanese barberry ...Berberis Japonica ...red or yellow... 4 



2l8 



APPENDIX 



SHRUBS FOR SUMMER BLOOM AND WINTER 
COLOR — Continued 



Color 



Height 
Feet 



Time Common Name Botanical Name 

July Indian currant or Symphoricarpus vul- 

coral berry garis pink 4 

High-bush cranberry. Viburnum opulus . . .white 8 

Golden-barked dog- 
wood Stolonifera aurea ...white 12 

Rugosa roses Rosa rugosa pink or white 4 

Button bush Cephalanthus white 6 

Aug. Pepper bush Clethra alnifolia ....white 5 

Rose of Sharon Hibiscus Syriacus ...white and rose... 10 

Sept. Hydrangea Hydrangea panicu- 

lata grandiflora . . . white and rose . . 5 

OLD-FASHIONED ANNUALS 
(Common Names) 



Ageratum or floss flower 

Alyssum 

Amaranthus or love-lies-bleeding 

Snapdragon 

Hardy marguerites 

Columbines 

Asters 

Sea-pink or thrift 

Lady's-slipper or balsam 

Portulaca 

Marigolds 

Calliopsis or prettyface 

Coreopsis or golden glory 

Calendula or pot marigold 

Canterbury bells 

Candytuft 

Cockscomb 

Dusty miller 

Spider flowers 

Morning-glory 



Scabiosa or mourning bride 

Scarlet runners 

Sweet peas 

Verbenas 

Sunflowers 

Four-o'clocks 

Forget-me-nots 

Nasturtiums 

Love-in-a-mist 

Cornflowers 

Pansies 

Phlox 

Johnny-j ump-ups 

Feverfew 

Job's-tears 

Cypress vine 

Angel's-trumpet or datura 

Clove pinks 

Gaillardias 

Shirley poppies 



APPENDIX 



219 



OLD-FASHIONED 

Larkspurs 

Cosmos 

Pinks 

Snow-on-the-mountain 

Bachelor's-buttons 

Immortelles 

Hollyhocks 

Rockets 

Lobelia 

Nicotiana 

Chinese lantern plant 

Stocks 

Wallflowers 

Pentstemons 



ANNUALS— Continued 
Horn poppies 
California poppies 
Sunflowers 
Mignonette 
Heliotrope 
Phlox Drummondii 
Lupins 
Scarlet sage 
Petunias 
Balloon vine 
Zinnias 
Periwinkle 
Violas 



HARDY LILIES 



Lilies of the valley 

St. Bruno's lily 

The annunciation lily 

St. Joseph's lily 

Lilium Harrisii 

Lilium auratum 

Lilium pardalinum or leopard 

lily 
Lilium speciosum rubrum 



Funkia or day lily 

Hemerocallis or yellow day lily 

Tritoma or torch lily 

Amaryllis 

Lilium Canadense 

Tigrinum splendens or tiger lily 

Lilium candidum 

Lilium umbellatum 



INTERESTING FLOWERING BULBS 



Gladiolus — various colors 
Ismena Calathina 
Tuberoses 



Spider lily, pancratium 

Oxalis 

Tuberous rooted begonias 



VINES WORTHY OF CULTURE 
Common Name Botanical Name Description 

Celastrus f gl ° SSy f ° liage 

Native bittersweet , A yellow flowers 

scandens , 

[ orange berries 



220 



APPENDIX 



VINES WORTHY OF CULTURE— Continued 



Common Name 
Japanese clematis 

Virgin's bower 



Botanical Name 
Clematis paniculata 

Clematis 
Virginiana 



Hall's Japanese honey- Japonica 
suckle Halleana 



Scarlet honeysuckle Fuchsioides 



Trumpet vine 



Wistaria 



Bignonia 
radicans 



Wistaria magnifica 



Woodbine or Virginia Ampelopsis 
creeper quinquefolia 



Hop vine 



Humulus lupulus 



Clematis Jackmanii Clematis Jackmanii 

Kudzu vine or Jack- Pueraria Thun- 
and-the-beanstalk bergiana 



Matrimony vine 



Lycium 



Description 
firm foliage 
white blossom 
high climber 
flowers white 
fragrant 
semi-evergreen 

foliage 
cream-colored 

flowers 
glossy foliage 
red trumpets 
red berries 
rich foliage 
red-orange 

trumpets 
sturdy foliage 
fragrant 
cluster of blue 

flowers 
graceful 

foliage 
red winter 

berries 

r graceful 
\ vine 

deep purple 
velvety 

flowers 
a remarkable 

climber 



f scarlet 
J fruit in 
[ autumn 



APPENDIX 



221 



Winter Color in Bark and Fruit 

An attractive appearance may be given to home grounds 
in the dull winter season by means of a choice of shrubs 
and decorative trees having blossom and foliage that are 
equally desirable in the summer. The fruits of scarlet, 
orange, white, gray, blue, or purplish tints give life to 
leafless shrubbery and invite the birds and the squirrels. 
The colors of bark and twigs when the sap is rising show 
marked differences which lend beauty to a landscape when 
the earth is bare or when snowdrifts are heaped around. 
Each of the following shrubs and trees has its special color 
note for winter. 



Common Name 

Winterberry or black alder 

European barberry 

Japanese barberry 

Holly barberry or mahonia 

American redbud or Judas-tree 

Sweet pepper bush 

Siberian dogwood 

Blue dogwood 

Round-leaved dogwood 

Cornelian cherry 

Golden-barked dogwood 

Scarlet thorn 

Cockspur thorn 

English hawthorn or May 

Japan quince 

Silver thorn 

Bush honeysuckle 

Burning bush or wahoo 



Botanical Name 

Ilex verticillata 
Berberis vulgaris 
Berberis Japonica 
Berberis aquifolium 
Cercis Canadensis 
Clethra alnifolia 
Cornus Siberica 
Cornus alternifolia 
Cornus circinata 
Cornus mas. 

Cornus stolonifera aurea 
Crataegus coccinea 
Crataegus crus-galli 
Crataegus oxyacantha 
Cydonia Japonica 
Eleagnus edulis 
Bella Candida 
Euonymus atropurpureus 



222 APPENDIX 

WINTER COLOR IN BARK ANTJ FRUIT— Continued 
Common Name Botanical Name 

Spindle tree Euonymus Europseus 

Witch-hazel Hamamelis Virginica 

Sea buckthorn Hippophse rhamnoides 

Amoor privet Ligustrum Amurense 

European privet Ligustrum vulgare 

Bush honeysuckle Lonicera casrulea 

Matrimony vine Lycium 

Nine-bark spirea Spiraea opulifolia 

Hop tree (wafer ash) Ptelea trifoliata 

Mountain currant Ribes alpinum 

Shining rose Rosa lucida 

Ramanas rose Rosa rugosa 

Buffalo berry Shepherdia Canadensis 

Snowberry Symphoricarpus racemosus 

Coral berry Symphoricarpus vulgaris 

On Garden Plans 

The most charming gardens are the result of years of 
growth and reshaping of plans. The longer one works 
over a piece of ground the more clearly its possibilities 
define themselves. A genius may create an artistic gar- 
den, planting as the inspiration seizes him, but the 
average man or woman needs a definite plan sketched on 
paper. There must be a certain symmetrical arrange- 
ment of paths and beds. If the plan appears too formal 
at first it is possible to modify it later. It is far better to 
have a formal arrangement than to waste space because 
of lack of any plan. 

Nearly all pieces of land are measured in rectangular 
proportions, and hence the plans presented in this volume 



APPENDIX 223 

are for the shape of the average residential giounds. It 
is neither necessary nor desirable to follow any one of 
them exactly. Parts of a plan may be used, portions 
rearranged, and paths made to suit convenience. Though 
the brotherhood of artistic gardeners warn against the 
garden plan and bedding, it must not be forgotten that 
space is more economically used when defined in beds, 
turf, and paths. An orderly mind enjoys a plan, and can 
break the formal lines into curves of grace by spreading 
border plants backward among the taller plants, and by 
the introduction of original ideas in grouping and in the 
placing of seats, arches, trimmed box, or cedars. 

A small suburban or city lot less than a hundred feet 
in length and half as wide can be made to give an im- 
pression of spaciousness, and to deceive the eye, by means 
of curving walks, shrubbery, and receding borders, which 
lend to the lines of distance. 

At present there are arguments for and against paths 
in gardens. Equal numbers are arrayed on each side, and 
when so well balanced it is safe to assume that each has 
some truth worth considering. The eminent landscape 
architects of the past, among them Repton, have laid 
down rules for paths. Fashions in path making change, 
however, and while one generation decides on gravel 
another prefers brick, a third pounded earth, a fourth 
cement, as most practical, and the naturalist insists that 
shaven turf makes the finest path. 



224 APPENDIX 

A clean, well-shaven lawn spreading between borders 
presents a beautiful appearance; the plants grow more 
naturally in their frame of grass. The old objection to 
damp paths for the weeder is done away with since the 
stout boot and the rubber shoe have been worn. The 
borders of hardy flowers pushing into the lawn, even the 
most lowly — the daisies, cowslips, primulas, arabis, myo- 
sotis — seem to weave color into the border of green. 

John Sedding, a prince of gardeners, decided a path 
should be wide and excellently made. It should lead 
directly from one point to another, and if it curved there 
should be a genuine reason for diverting its course, a 
reason defended by art or demanded by nature. A clump 
of shrubs, a rise of the land, or an obstruction by floral 
mound, fountain, or sundial is sufficient to bend a path, 
that it may be made more graceful in its course. 

The eye is better satisfied with definite boundaries, and 
seclusion being one of the virtues of a garden, a hedge, 
stone wall, or shrubbery may inclose it as a frame does 
a picture. Here and there should be places for real 
retirement and privacy, which can be secured by an 
arrangement of beds, arbors, or shrubbery. A distant 
view through an arch to the landscape beyond is a pretty 
addition, and every means should be employed so to 
deceive the eye that, although seclusion is secured, a 
narrowed feeling is prevented. 

The edging of beds is easily effected by allowing the 



APPENDIX 225 

lowly plants to run to the margins, where the clipping 
shears can cut them back from the path or lawn. A 
formal edge is not considered in good taste, while a good 
deal of work is necessary to keep it in order. The simple 
way of planting alyssum, Iberis or the hardy candytuft, 
forget-me-nots and musk, pansies and primulas, perennial 
phlox or the conventional border of geraniums, letting 
the inner line be broken by allowing plants to grow 
irregularly and to mingle with other groups, is the best 
method. 

Weedy plants running to foliage rather than to bloom 
should be uprooted; it is not a kindness to nurse sickly 
plants in a border. The whole aspect is spoiled and the 
entire colony endangered by weedy plants ready for 
parasites, and sickly ones which may spread a mold or 
some other disease. 

A lily bed may have a straggling appearance unless the 
tall lilies have been set in the center or at the back, and 
the shorter at the front. This rule, like all others, should 
not be observed so exactly in any border or bed that 
stiffness is the result. A slight variation of a tall plant 
breaking a line is pleasing, and an irregularity gives the 
zest of novelty. Among the lilies the little dwarf ground 
plants make a pretty carpet over the earth while setting 
a background for the stately blossoms above them. 

The truly formal garden is so planned that its form 
catches the eye first of all. It does not follow that 



226 APPENDIX 

geometrical beds should appear as stiff when planted in 
color as the lines indicate on paper. In nature "the har- 
mony of colors and array of plants will be the attraction, 
and the orderly arrangement of growing spaces merely 
an item of convenience. 

Richard Jefferies says that birds love to build in the 
box and the yew, but they detest vacant, draughty spaces 
underneath, and avoid spindly laurels and rhododendrons. 
"The common hawthorn hedge around a country garden 
shall contain three times as many nests, and shall be 
visited by five times as many birds as the foreign ever- 
greens, so costly to rear and so sure to be killed by the 
first old-fashioned frost." 

The cedar walks, the wilderness, and the maze and 
avenues familiar in old English gardens contributed to 
delightful ideas of seclusion. There should be shaded 
ways for getting about, and cool retreats for hot days. 
As Bacon has said, one ought not to "buy the shade by 
going into the sun" when passing from one section to 
another. 

The flower border, usually of the spring bulbs which 
are succeeded by the perennials, close around the founda- 
tions of a house, relieves that bare appearance so notice- 
able when the walls spring directly from the ground. 
This flower border should contain a succession of plants 
to keep blossoms until frost, and the plan should be 
continued in flower borders at the foot of shrubbery, 



APPENDIX 227 

forming, as it were, a floral ribbon linking the house and 
grounds to the garden. A careful effort will prevent the 
blank spaces of earth between clumps of perennials and 
under the shrubbery. The evergreen candytuft and 
dwarf phlox, the starworts and anemones, day lilies 
and hardy ferns face the shrubbery gracefully. These 
plants and others of a similar habit creep over the 
ground, crowding out weeds and keeping the earth 
above the roots moist and clean. 

The Window Box 

When Leigh Hunt wrote a chapter of classic prose 
on "A Flower for the Window" he met an echo of in- 
timate feeling from the hearts of many who had owned 
a potted plant or cherished a window box. No one 
can care for flowers without accepting the rewards of un- 
selfishness. Their dependence admits them among the 
daily duties, and their joyful appearance in blossom 
spreads delight about them. 

Among window boxes, as in the majority of the affairs 
of life, there are the matter-of-fact and the personal. 
The first relate to decorative arrangement and the latter 
to little companies of flowers whose diversity is a matter 
of individual taste and enjoyment, and which under 
proper conditions, though lifted away from Mother 
Earth, will thrive on an insecure foothold in pots or re- 
ceptacles perched on window sills. 



228 APPENDIX 

The window-box gardener has perfect command over 
his resources. He can sum up his advantages as well as 
his disadvantages and control his results with the success 
of one who sows and reaps in larger grounds. The soil 
can be prepared, the moisture controlled, storms averted, 
and, the sunlight having been measured, the crops can be 
regulated accordingly. 

The artistic possibilities of window boxes as accessory 
decorations to a residence or even to an estate, for their 
use can be extended to summer houses, barns, and the rail- 
ings of bridges and arched ways, may be carried as far as 
the imagination of the gardener will go. The humblest 
shack can be turned into an artistic bungalow and the cot- 
tage of dreary surroundings be made a beauty spot by a 
few plants in boxes on the window sills. 

A touch of color given by scarlet geraniums, relieved by 
the white of feverfew and daisies, the green of their own 
foliage, and an edge of yellow-eyed musk above trailing 
sprays of silver-leaved myrtle or the glossy English ivy 
in the most ordinary of window boxes, against a brown 
painted wooden wall or the dull brick of the commonplace 
house, creates a picture. None of these plants are rare 
and all endure more than the average neglect of a busy 
housekeeper and will thrive in a dry summer. 

The practical person asks first of all for the box itself. 
With money in the purse one may purchase a patent con- 
trivance, self-watering, safely drained, and fitted to the 



APPENDIX 229 

place it is to occupy. Certain boxes are made of metal, 
others of wood with metal pans, and others of plain wood 
fashioned by the neighborhood carpenter. The home- 
made box made of odd pieces of lumber knocked from 
grocery boxes will do just as well as any of the more ex- 
pensive patents. A dime's worth of paint will cover all 
the boxes needed for the front of a house. 

The qualit3^ of the soil and the drainage are most im- 
portant. No box need leak to any extent, nor plants 
grow soggy, if the bottom of the box has been covered 
with a layer of broken stone and some charcoal. Nearly 
every florist has a heap of properly mixed mold from 
which he is willing to sell. It contains the correct pro- 
portions of black earth, sand, and clay for flower culture. 
The soil just under the sod in vacant lots is also suitable 
for this purpose, and in fact any garden earth will do 
that has been enriched with manure finely worked over. 

There are as many ways of selecting what shall be put 
into the window box as there are gardeners. For a for- 
mal decoration of an English front or a colonial type of 
house a simple hedge of small box trees before the win- 
dows answers the purpose. Where there are many win- 
dow decorations about a house it is pleasant to introduce 
at least one of these quaint arrangements to diffuse a pun- 
gent fragrance. The box of ferns, or English ivy or 
myrtle gracefully trailing, is at once elegant and austere. 
Although of only one color, the tender greens kept fresh 



230 APPENDIX 

and free from dust add to the beauty of their surround- 
ings. All of these will grow on the north side of walls, 
or in situations where the sun rarely shines. 

Among the flowering plants the begonias, pink and 
scarlet, and the impatiens sultani with attractive rose- 
hued flowers, are recommended for north or shaded 
walls. 

The idea of using one species only to a box is fre- 
quently productive of the best results. The experienced 
gardener knows what certain plants will do and can ar- 
range in localities congenial to them the abutilon or 
flowering maple with its handsome bells, or the blue 
ageratum, or the orange and red lantanas, or plants af- 
fording flowers for vases. 

Some years ago a certain section of London attracted 
visitors because of the cheerful fronts of the houses, 
trimmed with window boxes. On investigation it was 
discovered that a florist took the contract for the summer 
and filled the boxes with potted geraniums, and various 
other plants, removing a pot whenever the plant faded. 
This practical method commends itself to many, especi- 
ally to those in the city who have little time for the care 
of a window box. 

By planting in pots set in the larger receptacle the dis- 
play may be changed with the season. Boxes with 
bulbs, such as scillas, hyacinths, daffodils, and tulips, may 
appear with the first warm spring days. These should 



APPENDIX 231 

be followed by pansies, daisies, forget-me-nots, and 
potted stocks, and these in their turn can give way to 
nasturtiums or specimens of the splendid hydrangeas and 
scarlet salvias and chrysanthemums for the fall. While 
every window box need not harbor the same plants, it 
follows that those on the same wall should harmonize in 
color, and that there should be some relation between 
them. 

In the selection of plants the question of exposure is 
an important one. How much sunshine pours directly 
on the wall? Is this the side of the prevailing storms'? 
Is this wall always in shadow, owing to a neighboring 
house? Is the situation exposed or protected? 

Some plants will endure neglect, survive a hot summer, 
revive if drowned by careless watering, and manage to 
exist with a semblance of cheerful courage. Others, ap- 
parently hardy, will refuse to put up with unsympathetic 
treatment and will lie dowr. and die. While the oppor- 
tunity of the window gardener is great, he must exercise 
a degree of common sense and realize that there are 
plants which will refuse confinement, and that his success 
must lie among plants that have been tested. 

A gay household decoration can be secured by plant- 
ing the seeds of annuals. The pot marigolds or calen- 
dulas repay with an abundance of yellow flowers; the 
cypress vine or burning bush is an annual of interesting 
habits in its change of color, and indeed nearly every 



232 APPENDIX 

annual — nasturtiums, phlox, and the like — can be made 
to thrive and to be a pleasure to the one who cultivates 
them. 

The following rules for the selection of plants have 
been drawn from long experience. A very sunny expos- 
ure can be modified by preparing a screen of cheesecloth 
or paper to shelter the plants during the hottest hours of 
the day. The west wall suffers more than the east or 
the south wall from the heat of the afternoon sun. The 
morning hours are cooler, tempering the rays of the sun 
before midday, and the light on south walls is continu- 
ally changing. The north wall, gray, cool, and often 
damp, must be accepted as it is, but as previously stated 
there are plants of a delicate nature which thrive best 
under these conditions. Among these it is possible to em- 
phasize the ferns and begonias, fuchsias and impatiens. 

Under average conditions, for the flower box on a 
shaded exposure select scarlet and white geraniums, of 
which there is a good variety, rose geraniums, pelar- 
goniums or Lady Washingtons, begonias (coral and 
white), feverfew, marguerites, spirea (white), lobelia 
(blue), petunias (purple and white), impatiens (rose), 
verbenas (many colors), and ivy geraniums and ageratum 
(blue). 

For a sunny exposure, either south, east, or west, choose 
any of the above and to them add the sun-loving helio- 
trope, the single petunias, periwinkles, and coleus, a 



APPENDIX 233 

decorative foliage plant. The nasturtiums will adapt 
themselves to any situation if the soil is right and there is 
not too much wind. The fragrant gilliflower, hardy 
sedums and saxifrage, sweet-scented musk, lemon ver- 
bena, and mignonette take kindly to box culture when 
their needs are considered. The oxalis is a dainty foliage 
plant with delicate bloom, and when foliage is consid- 
ered the nearest florist usually has some fern or trailing 
vine which he knows is a reliable friend. 

A Child's Garden 

It is true that the open heart of childhood enjoys every 
flower that blows. The work of gardening, however, does 
not appeal to every child any more than it appeals to 
every grown person. It is dutiful work, and the imagi- 
nation does not run far enough ahead to show the young 
person what is to come from the seeds. All flowers are 
mysteries and beautiful, but the child takes more kindly 
to those that have an association with pleasant sensations 
of beauty and fragrance, as the sweet pea and the rose, 
or that may be linked in some way with his toys or his 
sports, as the gourds, larkspurs for chains, and Job's- tears 
for bead strings. 

The following list has been made especially for a 
child's garden, and to it may be added the popular an- 
nuals noted for color and fragrance. 



234 



APPENDIX 



FOR A CHILD'S GARDEN 



snapdragons 

balsams 

clove or grass pinks 

foxgloves 

ostrich plumes 

oxeye daisies 

sweet Williams 

sunflowers 

red sunflowers 

Johnny-j ump-ups 

star-eyed phlox 

dusty millers 

Job's-tears 

morning-glories 

goldenrod 

four-o'clocks 

mourning bride 

bird of paradise 

English daisies 

love-in-a-mist 



columbines 

Black Prince poppies 

balsam apple 

quaking grass 

prettyface 

black-eyed Susans 

Canterbury bells 

canary-bird vine 

Mexican fire plant 

hen and chickens 

snow on the mountain 

coleus (rainbow mixture) 

cosmos 

cypress vine 

lady's paint brush 

angel's breath 

Chinese lantern 

Chinese bellflower 

forget-me-not 

cypress vine 



asters 

sweet peas 

zinnias 

blanket flower 

balloon vine 

pouch flower 

Venus's-looking-glass 

coxcomb 

bachelor's-buttons 

ragged robins 

larkspurs 

cigar plant 

gourds 

hollyhocks 

marigolds 

catchflies 

martynia 

musk plant 

torch lilies 

burning stars 



The Rose Garden 

The rose is a decorative plant of the highest order. 
There is an increasing feeling in England that the rose 
must come back to the flower garden in its natural beauty. 
The prize rose growers are to blame for the mistreat- 
ment of one of the fairest flowers, trimming it and 
training it to standards, pruning it away from its natural 
style as a plant, and forcing it for the sake of size in 
blossom until we have lost sight of the true value of 
rosebushes and climbers. 

The failure of many rose gardens is due to the 



APPENDIX 235 

importation of strange stock. Every locality has its 
native roses, and there is no corner of the world which has 
vegetation but possesses its own wild roses susceptible 
of cultivation. About all cottages grow June roses and 
monthly roses which, by reason of their being familiar, 
escape the gardener in search of fine things. These the 
home gardener, planting a rose garden, will use first of 
all, giving them the places they like best. In return there 
will be no disappointments such as he might have had if 
he had sent a thousand miles for a rare rose which must 
be acclimated. 

A rose garden should have loam at least three feet 
deep. Its surface should be varied, and while room 
enough be given, no space should be allowed for foolish 
standards. Let each rose tree do its best after its natural 
habit; the climbing rose has its wall or trellis, the creep- 
ing rose its rock heap, and in place of teasing the soil, let 
nature take it in hand by planting rockfoils, stone crops, 
violets, myosotis, and little Alpine plants which cover 
the ground with a delicate carpet, and mulch the roots 
naturally. Any one, by using home roses, can have a 
successful rose garden. 

A Water Garden 

A brook or the margin of a lake or stream is a fortu- 
nate accessory to a garden. It may be the means of 
low areas for the bog plants, orchids, and lilies, and a 



236 APPENDIX 

vegetation not possible under any other circumstances. 
Aquatic plants grow easily. They demand sunshine, 
water, and a foothold in rich earth, all of which can be 
supplied in a cement tank or a buried cask, and if set 
there the average water lily, hyacinth, or cress will take 
up the task of blossoming as if in its native haunts. 

An earthy margin affords the opportunity for the half- 
aquatic plants and the sweet flags, the sagittaria, and the 
arum lilies. Again emphasizing the supplies of a local- 
ity, the reader is reminded that each district has its native 
water plants, which thrive amazingly when brought 
under cultivation. After these have been chosen the 
water garden may accept the rarer lilies. 

The Victoria regia or royal water lilies are grateful 
in the home garden. The hardy nymphaeas of both 
European and American stock and the Nelumbiums may 
be depended upon where the water has a circulation. 
The Nelumbium speciosufn or Egyptian lotus has superb 
flowers and magnificent foliage, and the Nelumbium 
luteum or American lotus, the water chinquepin, is nearly 
as magnificent. 

The edge of a water garden is framed picturesquely 
by clumps of Egyptian papyrus, pampas grass, typlia 
latifolia or cat-tail, and the decorative zizania aquatica 
or wild rice. The ornamental possibilities of these is 
very great. The Montevidiensis, or giant arrowhead, is 
a persistent grower. 



APPENDIX 237 

In the native woods every brook has its fringe of 
flowering plants. There children gather the crowfoot 
buttercup, blue and white violets, forget-me-nots, and 
fragile flowers which will form a pretty border and be- 
come domesticated in the cultivated grounds where the 
brook is the flow from a water pipe or an irrigating ditch 
instead of a natural stream. A dwarf iris and a spirea, 
one of five acceptable varieties, is to be depended upon, 
as well as the ever reliable marsh marigolds, hemerocallis, 
"flowering fern" or Osmunda regalis, Senecio japonzca 
which has handsome deep yellow flowers, and the Inula 
helenium of the sunflower family. 

For shaded nooks near the water there are still more 
members of the widespread iris family, and few places 
are better adapted for the growing of primroses, popu- 
larly known as primulas and cowslips. The Mertensia 
or Virginian cowslip, with its blue bells, and the culti- 
vated dodecatlieon or shooting stars, prefer moist shade. 
In such places, too, the wild-flower gatherer will plant 
the trillium grandiflorum, the lobelia cardinalis or 
cardinal flower, the wild geranium, and the perennial 
wind-flowers. 

The finer species of ferns seek the waterside. A per- 
manent fern bed, to accomplish anything of a luxuriant 
nature, must have the native ferns of adjacent groves for 
its mainstay. The adiantum or maidenhair is more hardy 
than it appears, provided it has shade and moisture. The 



238 APPENDIX 

royal ferns and feather ferns vary the plantation. North 
America has a noble assortment of ferns, and to these it 
is possible to add a number acclimated from Japan. 

In gathering up the threads of thought about gardens, 
it seems as if a well-made garden resembles an embroid- 
ered fabric in which every inch has been utilized for 
design and every possibility touched upon. Such is the 
thought conveyed by old gardens where the stone walls, 
the stepping stones, and the ascending ways are made 
the support or background of "flowers in the crannied 
wall." Alpine plants cling to ledges, violas look from 
nooks where a handful of earth has given the roots 
encouragement, the stonecrops and rockfoils make velvet 
on the balustrades, and Alpine toadflax fringes graveled 
paths. 

The creeper-shaded walk under the pergola is a natural 
part of the scheme. It is not conscious art, nor an arched 
way conspicuous in the plan, but a trellis festooned with 
grape vines, Banksian roses, wistaria, clematis, honey- 
suckle, passion flowers on their lacey vines, flame-red 
trumpet flowers, or other climbers which have found 
support. The springing arches over parting ways admit- 
ting from one fragrant plantation to another are devices 
for holding the great design in unity, and seem to be 
there by chance for the adventures of convolvulus, 



APPENDIX 239 

morning-glory, scarlet runners, or other light-minded 
climbing plants. 

A handful of earth in sunshine and rain may be the 
cradle of violets, of the rose of a hundred leaves, or of 
the fruitful corn. What then are the possibilities of 
a garden*? 

"O universal Mother, who dost keep 
From everlasting thy foundations deep, 
Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing to thee." 



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